San Diego Lightfoot Sue

by Tom Reamy

  “I think he has.” Miss Mahan took Lana’s hand as she saw Robin get in his car and pull out with the pall bearers and the hearse directly behind him. “They’re starting. You’d better go back to your car. I’m glad you told me. I’ll do all I can to help.”

  Lana opened the car door. “I appreciate it, Miss Mahan, but I really don’t see what you can do.”

  “We shall see what we shall see.”

  Miss Mahan managed to hang back until she was last in the funeral procession. The highway had been cleared of snow and she hoped it wouldn’t start again before they all got back to town. But she didn’t know. The sky looked terrible. She turned off the highway at Miller’s Comers, down the dirt road to the old Peacock place. There was nothing left of Miller’s Comers now except a few scattered farm houses. The café had been moved into Hawley eight years ago and the Gulf station had closed when George Cuttsanger died last fall. The Gulf people had even taken down the signs.

  If the Gilbreaths were fixing up the old Peacock farm, they must have started on the inside. It was still as gray and weary looking as it was ten years ago, if not more so. The black Chrysler was in the old carriage house and smoke drifted this way and that from one of the chimneys, caught by small erratic gusts of air.

  She parked and sat looking at the house a moment before getting out. The snow was clean and undisturbed on the front walk. She guessed they must use the back door; it was closer to the carriage house.

  No one answered her knock, but she knew they were home. She waited and knocked again. Still no response. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. “Mrs. Gilbreath?” she called. She listened carefully but there was not a sound. She could hear the melting snow dripping from the eaves and the little ticking sounds an old house makes. She went in and closed the door behind her. “Mrs. Gilbreath?” she called again, hearing nothing but a faint echo. The house was warm but even more dilapidated than the last time she was in it.

  She stepped into the parlor and saw them both sitting there. “Oh!” she gasped, startled, and then laughed in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to barge in, but no one answered my knock.” Mr. and Mrs. Gilbreath sat in highback easy chairs facing away from her. She could only see the tops of their heads. They didn’t move.

  “Mrs. Gilbreath?” she said, beginning to feel queasy. She walked slowly around them, her eyes fixed so intently on the chairs she momentarily experienced an optical illusion that the chairs were turning slowly to face her. She blinked and took an involuntary step backward. They sat in the chairs dressed to go out, their eyes focussed on nothing. Neither of them moved, not even the slight movements of breathing, nor did their eyes blink. She stared at them in astonishment, fearing they were dead.

  Miss Mahan approached them cautiously and touched Mrs. Gilbreath on the arm. The flesh was warm and soft. She quickly drew her hand back with a gasp. Then she reached again and shook the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Gilbreath?” she whispered.

  “She won’t answer you.” Miss Mahan gave a little shriek and looked up with a jerk. Twilla was strolling down the stairs, tying the sash of a rather barbaric looking floor-length fur robe. The antique pendant she always wore was around her neck. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and leaned against the newell post. She smiled. “They’re only simulacra, you know.”

  “What?” Miss Mahan was bewildered. She hadn’t expected Twilla to be here. She thought she would be with Leo.

  Twilla indicated her parents. “Watch.” Miss Mahan jerked her head back toward the people in the chairs. Suddenly, their heads twisted on their necks until the blank faces looked at each other. Then they grimaced and stuck out their tongues. The faces became expressionless again, and the heads swiveled back to stare at nothing.

  Twilla’s laugh trilled through the house. Miss Mahan jerked her eyes back to the beautiful child, feeling like a puppet herself. “They’re rather clever, don’t you think?” she cooed as she walked toward Miss Mahan, the fur robe making a soft sound against the floor. “I’m glad you came, Miss Mahan. It saves me the trouble of going to you.”

  “What?” Miss Mahan felt out of control. Her heart was beating like a hammer and she clutched the back of Mrs. Gilbreath’s chair to keep from falling.

  Twilla smiled at her panic. “I haven’t been unaware of your interest in me, you know. I had decided it was time to get you out of the way before you became a problem.”

  “Get me out of the way?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you?” She felt her voice rising to a screech but she couldn’t stop it. “What are these things pretending to be your parents?”

  Twilla laughed. “A thirteen-year-old is quite limited in this society. I had to have parents to do the things I couldn’t do myself.” She shrugged. “There are other ways but this is the least bothersome.”

  “I won’t let you get me out of the way,” Miss Mahan hissed, dismissing the things she didn’t understand and concentrating on that single threat, trying to pull her reeling senses together.

  “Don’t be difficult, Miss Mahan. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.” Twilla’s face had become petulant and then she smiled slyly. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” Miss Mahan didn’t budge. Twilla took a few steps and then turned back. “Come along, now. Don’t you want all your questions answered?”

  She started up the stairs. Miss Mahan followed her. Her legs felt mechanical. Half way up she turned and looked back at the two figures sitting in the chairs like department store dummies. Twilla called to her and she continued to the top.

  A hallway ran the length of the house upstairs with bedroom doors on either side. Twilla opened one of them and motioned Miss Mahan in. The house wasn’t as old as her own but it still had the fourteen foot ceilings. But the ceilings, as well as the walls, had been removed. This side of the hall was one big area, opening into the attic, the roof at least twenty feet overhead with what appeared to be some sort of trap door recently built into it. The area was empty except for a large gray mass hunched in one corner like a partially collapsed tent.

  “He’s asleep,” Twilla said and whistled. The mass stirred. The tent unfolded slowly, rustling like canvas sliding on canvas. Bony ribs spread gracefully, stretching the canvas-like flesh into vast bat wings which lifted out and up to bump against the roof. The wings trembled slightly as they stretched lazily and then settled, folding neatly behind the thing sitting on the floor.

  It was a man, or almost a man. He would have been about sixteen feet tall had he been standing. His body was massively muscled and covered with purplish gray scales that shimmered metallically even in the dim light. His chest, shoulders, and back bulged with wing-controlling muscles. He stretched his arms and yawned, then rubbed at his eyes with homy fists. His head was hairless and scaled; his ears rose to points reaching above the crown of his skull. The face was angelically beautiful but the large liquid eyes were dull and the mouth was slack like an idiot’s. He scratched his hip with two-inch talons, making the sound of a rasp on metal. He was completely naked and emphatically male. His massive sex lay along his heavy thigh like a great purple-headed snake.

  “This is Dazreel,” Twilla said pleasantly. The creature perked up at the sound of his name and looked toward them. “He’s a djinn,” Twilla continued. He turned his empty gaze away and began idly fondling himself. Twilla sighed. “I’m afraid Dazreel’s pleasures are rather limited.”

  Miss Mahan ran.

  She clattered down the stairs, clutching frantically at the bannister to keep her balance. She lost her right shoe and stumbled on the bottom step, hitting her knees painfully on the floor. She reeled to her feet, unaware of her shins shining through her torn stockings. Twilla’s crystal laughter peeling down the stairs hardly penetrated the shimmering white layer of panic blanketing her mind.

  She bruised her hands on the front door, clawing at it, trying to open it the wrong way. She careened across the porch, into the snow, not feeling the cold on her stocki
nged left foot. But her lopsided gait caused her to fall, sprawling on her face, burying her arms to the elbows in the snow. She crawled a few feet before gaining enough momentum to regain her feet. Her whole front was frosted with white but she didn’t notice.

  She locked the car doors, praying it would start. But she released the clutch too quickly, and it bucked and stalled. She ground the starter and turned her head to see Twilla standing on the porch, her arms hugging a pillar, her cheek caressing it, her smile mocking. The motor caught. Miss Mahan turned the car in a tight circle. The rear wheels lost traction and the car fishtailed.

  Take it easy, she screamed to herself. You’ve made it. You’ve gotten away. Don’t end up in the far ditch.

  She was halfway to Miller’s Comers when the loose snow began whipping in a cloud around her. She half heard the dull boom of air being compressed by vast wings. A shadow fell over her and Dazreel landed astraddle the hood of her car. The metal collapsed with a hollow whump as the djinn leaned down to peer curiously at her through the windshield. She began screaming, tearing her throat with short, hysterical, mindless shrieks that seemed to come from a great distance.

  Her screams ended suddenly with a grunt as the front wheels struck the ditch, bringing the car to an abrupt halt. Dazreel lost his balance and flopped over backwards with a glitter of purplish gray and a tangle of canvas-flesh into the snow drifts. Miss Mahan watched in paralyzed shock as he got to his feet, grinning an idiot grin, shaking the snow from his wings, and walked around the car. His wings kept opening and closing slightly to give him balance. Her head turned in quick jerks like a wooden doll, following his movements. He leaned over the car from behind and the glass of both side windows crumbled with a gravelly sound as his huge fingers poked through to grasp the tops of the doors.

  The dim light became even dimmer as his wings spread in a mantle over the car. The snow swirled into the air and she could see the tips of each wing as it made a downward stroke. The car shifted and groaned and rose from the ground.

  She fainted.

  A smiling angel face floated out of a golden mist. Soft, pink lips moved solicitously but no sound emerged. Miss Mahan felt a glass of water at her mouth and she drank greedily, soothing her raw throat. Sound returned.

  “Are you feeling better, Miss Mahan? We don’t want you to have a heart attack just yet, do we?” Twilla’s eyes glittered with excitement.

  Miss Mahan sucked oxygen, fighting the fog in her brain. Then, raw, red fingers of anger tore away the silvery panic. She looked at the beautiful monstrous child kneeling before her, the extravagant robe parted enough at the top to reveal a small, perfect bare breast. The nipple looked as if it had been rouged. “I’m feeling quite myself again, thank you.”

  Twilla rose and moved to a facing chair. They were in the parlor. Miss Mahan looked around, but the djinn was absent. Only the parent dolls were there in the same positions.

  “Dazreel is back upstairs,” Twilla assured her, watching her speculatively. “You have nothing to fear.” She smiled slightly. “He will have only virgins.”

  Miss Mahan felt the blood draining from her face and she weaved in the chair, feeling the panic creeping back. Twilla threw her head back and her crystal laugh was harsh and strident, like a chandelier tumbling down marble stairs.

  “Miss Mahan, you never cease to amaze me,” she gasped. “Imagine! And at your age, too.”

  The anger returned in full control. “It’s none of your business,” she stated unequivocally.

  “I’m ever so glad you decided to pay me a visit, Miss Mahan. It’s, what do you say? Killing two birds with one stone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dazreel has, as I said, limited, but strong appetites. If they aren’t satisfied, he becomes quite unmanageable. And don’t think he will reject you because you’re a scrawny old crow. He has no taste at all, and only one criterion: virginity.” Twilla was almost fidgety with anticipation.

  “What possible difference could it make to that monster?” I must be losing my mind, Miss Mahan thought, I’m sitting here having a calm conversation with this wretched child who is going to kill me!

  Twilla was thoughtful. “I really don’t know. I never thought about it. That’s just the way it’s always been. It could be a personal idiosyncracy, or perhaps it’s religious.” She shrugged. “Something like kosher, do you think? Anyway, you can’t fool him.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Miss Mahan said in confusion. “Did you say he was a… a djinn?”

  “Surely you’ve heard of them. King Solomon banished the entire race, if you remember.” She smiled, pleased. “But I saved Dazreel.”

  “How old are you?” Miss Mahan breathed.

  Twilla chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Don’t let the body mislead you. It’s relatively new. Dazreel has great power if you can control him. But, he’s crafty and very literal. One wrong move and…” She ran her forefinger across her throat.

  “But…” Miss Mahan was completely confused. “If this is all true, why are you going to school in Hawley, Kansas, for heaven’s sake?”

  Twilla sighed. “Boredom is the curse of the immortal, Miss Mahan. I thought it might offer some diversion.”

  “If you’re so bored with life, why don’t you die?”

  “Don’t be absurd!”

  “How could you be so inhuman? What you did to Yvonne… does life mean nothing to you?”

  Twilla shifted in irritation. “Don’t be tiresome. How could your brief, insignificant lives concern me?”

  There was a restless sound from above. Twilla glanced at the stairs. “Dazreel is becoming impatient.” She turned back to Miss Mahan with a smirk. “Are you ready to meet your lover, Miss Mahan?”

  Miss Mahan sat frozen, the blood roaring in her ears. “You might as well go,” Twilla continued. “It’s inevitable. Think of your dignity, Miss Mahan. Do you really want to go kicking and screaming? Or perhaps you’d like another run in the snow?”

  Miss Mahan stood up suddenly. “I won’t give you the satisfaction,” she said calmly. She walked to the stairs, bobbing up and down with one shoe off. Twilla rose and ran after her, circling her in glee.

  Twilla leaned against the newell post, blocking the stairs. She smiled wistfully. “I rather envy you, Miss Mahan. I’ve often wished… Dazreel knows the ancient Oriental arts, and sex was an art.” She grimaced. “Now it’s like two goats in heat!” Her smile returned. “I’ve often wished I had the capacity.”

  Miss Mahan ignored her and marched slowly up the stairs with lopsided dignity. Twilla clapped her hands and backed up ahead of her, taunting her, encouraging her, plucking at her gray tweed coat. Twilla danced around her, swirling the fur robe with graceful turns. Miss Mahan looked straight ahead, one hand on the bannister for balance.

  Then, at the third step from the top, she stumbled. She fell against the railing and then to her knees. She shifted and sat on the step, rubbing her shins.

  “Don’t lose heart now, Miss Mahan,” Twilla sang. “We’re almost there.” Twilla tugged at her coat sleeve. Miss Mahan clutched Twilla’s wrist as if she needed help in getting up. Then she heaved with all her might. Twilla’s laughter became a gasp and then a shriek as she plummeted down the stairs with a series of very satisfying thumps and crashes. Miss Mahan hurried after her but the fall had done the job.

  Twilla lay on her back a few feet from the bottom step, her body twisted at the wrong angle. She was absolutely motionless except for her face. It contorted in fury and her eyes were metallic with hate. Her rose petal lips writhed and spewed the most vile obscenities Miss Mahan had ever imagined, some of them in languages she’d never heard.

  “Dazreel!” Twilla keened. “Dazreel! Dazreel!” over and over. A howl reverberated through the house. It shook. Plaster crashed and wood splintered. Dazreel appeared at the top of the stairs, barely able to squeeze through the opening.

  Twilla continued her call. Miss Mahan took a trembling
step backward. Dazreel started down the steps. Miraculously they didn’t collapse. Only the bannister splintered and swayed outward.

  Miss Mahan commanded herself to think. What did she know about djinns? Very little, practically nothing. Wasn’t there supposed to be a controlling device of some sort? A lamp? A bottle? A magic ring? A talisman? Something. She looked at Twilla and then at the djinn. She almost fainted. Dazreel approached the bottom of the stairs with an enormous erection.

  She looked frantically at Twilla. She’s not wearing rings. Then something caught her eye.

  The pendant! Was it the pendant? It had slipped up and over her shoulder and beneath her neck. Miss Mahan scrambled for it. She pushed Twilla’s head aside. The child screamed in horrible agony. She grasped the pendant and pulled. The chain cut into the soft flesh of Twilla’s neck and then snapped, leaving a red line that oozed blood.

  She looked at Dazreel. He had stopped and was looking at her tentatively. It was the pendant! “Give it back,” Twilla groaned. “Give it back. Please. Please, give it back. It won’t do you any good. You don’t know how to use it.”

  Miss Mahan threw the pendant at him. Twilla screamed and the hair on the back of Miss Mahan’s neck bristled. It was not a scream of pain or rage, but of the damned. Dazreel’s huge hand darted out and caught the pendant. He held his fist to his face and opened his fingers, gazing at what he held. He looked at Miss Mahan and smiled an angelic smile. Then he rippled, like heat waves on the desert, and… vanished.

  Miss Mahan sat on the bottom step, weak with relief, gulping air. She looked at Twilla, as motionless as the parent dolls in the chairs. Only her face moved, twisting in sobs of self-pity. Miss Mahan almost felt sorry for her… but not quite.

  She stood up and walked through the kitchen and out the back door. She thought she knew where it would be. Everyone kept it there. She went to the shed behind the carriage house, floundering through the snow drift. She scooped away the snow to get the door open. She stepped in and looked around. There was almost no light. The scudding clouds seemed even lower and darker and the single window in the shed was completely grimed over.