THE TWILIGHT ZONE, Book 1: Shades of Night, Falling

by John J. Miller

  Good, Thomas thought. Let him worry. In the meantime, Thomas had his own needs to consider. His own desires.

  He entered Johann Schmidt’s workshop. It was virtually deserted and quiet as the proverbial grave. Only Trudi was present. Red-eyed and white-faced, she sat listlessly at Johann’s work bench, staring silently off into space . She looked as morose as a mother cat whose litter had just been drowned. She was so immersed in her grief that she didn’t even notice Thomas enter the room.

  “My dear Miss Schmidt,” he said, glad that he’d finally found a reason to wear his best outfit. He’d had McCool polish his Wellingtons till they shone. He wore over them his tightest- fitting trousers, revealing his length and strength of leg. His best waistcoat, of amethyst colored ribbed silk and wool, with a stand-up collar and square cut-away front, was resplendent. As was the morning coat he wore over it with faultlessly articulated m-notch lapels and a roll collar cut high in the back. He’d spent almost twenty minutes on his cravat, discarding a pile of ill-tied ones at his feet as McCool looked on uselessly—in amusement, until he finally achieved the drape and flow he was reaching for. He was, he knew, a charmingly handsome devil.

  She jumped as the sound of his voice transported from her inner world of grief back to the bleak reality of the real world.

  “Mr.—Mr. Noir, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  [141] Thomas put a look of concern on his face as he approached her forlorn figure.

  “I’m sorry to have startled you. But please. Remember that you promised to call me Thomas.”

  She nodded. Thomas smiled. She was vulnerable, devastated by the death of her father and the realization that she no longer had a means of making a living. She was alone in the world with no man to protect or provide for her.

  Thomas knew that he had captured her attention. Between his charm and the ensorcelled doll Callie had made in her image and fortified with Thomas’s own blood, it would be easy to capture her heart.

  Dinner at Noir Manor that night was unusual. Everyone, even Thomas, was on their best behavior. James stayed away from the brandy. Thomas and Benjamin Noir were punctual. And there were guests.

  Much to Jon’s surprise, his father had offered to put up Pierce and Irving, who had initially intended to stay at The Hanged Hessian. Benjamin Noir wanted them close where he could keep on eye on them. As unlikely as it seemed, he obviously didn’t want the constable sneaking around and looking at things he shouldn’t be, nor did he want the famous writer penning revelatory commentaries exposing all the Noir secrets to the reading public. His father told him as much in a brief, whispered meeting before dinner where he gave Jon the job of being their guide during their stay in the village.

  Or, as Benjamin Noir put more truthfully and succinctly, “their watch dog.”

  [142] Constable Pierce was, as seemed his wont, quiet during dinner, uttering his favorite phrase, “Oh gosh, yes,” several times, and little else. Irving was much more voluble. Suspiciously, to Jon at least, Thomas was at his most charming. He drew Irving out and got him to tell tales of his literary adventures in publishing as well as stories of his journeys across Europe. Thomas seemed entirely sincere about his interest in the latter. The Noirs and their guests sat at table until well into the evening as Irving spun stories of his travels through England, France, Italy, Greece, and Spain.

  “Wonderfully interesting,” Thomas commented as he, surprisingly enough, poured the last of the brandy for James who, even more surprisingly, had remained sober as the evening wound down.

  “Yes,” Benjamin Noir agreed. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear more, but it’s getting late and tomorrow will be a busy day. The pastor is in from Brooklyn. He’s staying with the Derlichts. If you’ll agree to release the bodies, Constable Pierce, we should hold the funerals tomorrow. The bodies aren’t ...” Benjamin Noir hesitated, and rephrased his final sentence. “They won’t last much longer.”

  “We don’t want the ice to get contaminated,” Seth said primly. “We’ve got a whole summer’s worth of ice that could be ruined if the, uh, process is dragged out much longer.”

  “Good gosh, yes,” Constable Pierce said. Then he made his longest speech since arriving in Geiststadt. “We can learn nothing more from the bodies. It’s time for their decent Christian burial.”

  [143] “What about Johann Schmidt,” Benjamin Noir said thoughtfully. “What can we do about his body?”

  “Eh?” Constable Pierce asked.

  “I don’t think they’ll want to bury him in consecrated ground. Him being a suicide.”

  Constable Pierce pursed his lips, stopping Jon from voicing his opposition to the suicide theory.

  “I can’t agree with that conclusion as yet,” the Constable said.

  “Trudi will be glad to hear that,” Jon said with some relief.

  Thomas cleared his throat, magically, it seemed, bringing all eyes around the table to him.

  “Yes, she will. But don’t worry about her, dear brother,” he said with a cryptic smile.

  Jon frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that her future is assured. This afternoon Miss Schmidt consented to be my wife.”

  A hubbub of surprised congratulations broke out around the table as Jon stared at his smiling brother in stunned silence, and his father regarded his thirteenth son with open speculation on his usually inscrutable face.

  9.

  Sunday, June 19th, The Fourth Intercalary Day

  Jon woke in the morning more tired, it seemed, than when he went to bed. Much to the astonishment of most of the on-lookers he’d refused the night before to join the congratulatory toast to Thomas as James broke out a fresh bottle of brandy. Instead he’d left the dining room in silence, a stony expression on his face. He went directly to his room, threw off his clothes and collapsed into bed. But sleep would not come. When he finally dozed after hours of fruitless tossing and turning his sleep was light and broken by a series of fleeting, barely remembered, but horrific dreams.

  As usual, he was the first one up that morning. But he had no enthusiasm for the coming day. He dressed mechanically and went down the stairs to the kitchen where Callie was already making tea and readying breakfast for the still-sleeping members of the household and their guests.

  She looked at him critically.

  “Didn’t sleep well, did you, boy?”

  “No.”

  She put the mug of strong tea on the table before him. His hands automatically cupped it, but he seemed to lack the will to lift it to his mouth and drink.

  “Your brother has taken the girl from you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  [145] Jon looked at the old woman, who returned his gaze with her usual impenetrably stoic expression.

  “How could he?” Jon asked bitterly.

  “How?” she laughed. “Your brother is a charmer. With help from the other world.”

  “You mean a spell or something?” Jon asked, only half-believingly.

  Callie shrugged. “What does it matter? It is done. He wanted her. He takes what he wants.” She paused, and looked at him for a moment as if in pity of the obvious misery on his face. “Though—”

  Whatever Callie was going to say was silenced as another voice chimed in, “Good gracious, that tea smells marvelous.”

  They turned to see Constable Pierce standing in the kitchen entrance, looking even more mild and sleepy-eyed first thing in the morning than he did during the rest of the day, if that were possible.

  “I will get you a cup,” Callie said flatly.

  The small man seated himself at the table across from Jon. They looked at each other silently for a few moments.

  “I was going to drop by Miss Schmidt’s,” the constable finally said, “to tell her that I’ve released her father’s body for burial. Would you care to accompany me?”

  “Yes,” Jon said. Perhaps if he could see her. Talk to her. Perhaps he could find out if things had really gone as far as his brother had claimed. T
homas was known to exaggerate. Or make grossly inflated claims. Perhaps this was just another of his wild notions, devoid of actual truth.

  [146] “Thank you, yes,” Pierce said politely as Callie put a mug in front of him on the kitchen table. She acknowledged his thanks with a silent nod and returned to her chair in front of the fire, rocking and soaking up the heat and staring at the dancing flames as if they were a true oracle of the future.

  Thomas slept soundly. He always did. He awoke each day refreshed and with no regrets, no matter what had happened the day before. He was not one to dwell on the past. He preferred to anticipate the future.

  He was also a vivid dreamer, but he never had nightmares. He always maintained perfect control of his dreams, as he did his life in the waking world. This dream started pleasantly enough. He was walking down the church aisle after the wedding, accompanied by his new bride. Trudi looked beautiful. That was good. If he was going to have a wife, she had to be beautiful. Thomas didn’t really need a wife, but it would give a gloss of stability and respectability to the Noir family. Children would probably prove useful, as Seth and Jon and he, himself, were to the Captain. There was always the possibility of a child like James, though ...

  The church was crowded with familiar faces. He supposed that it was the tiny Geiststadt church where a pastor came once a week from Brooklyn. But Thomas didn’t know for sure because he’d never been inside the church. The Captain was missing. That was good, too. It meant that he was dead. That was why all the peasants were bowing and scraping. He, Thomas, was now the Lord of Noir Manor.

  [147] The only unhappy face in the crowd was Jonathan’s. No surprise there. He was angry that Thomas had taken Trudi from him. Which was part of the reason—maybe the main reason—why he’d decided to marry her. He liked to take things from his brother. He’d done it all his life. This was just the latest, though maybe the best, thing he’d ever stolen from him.

  Still, he should try to keep his brother happy. In some way. He was useful after all. He ran the farm. Thomas wouldn’t have to worry about getting cow shit on his boots, yet could still be Lord of the Manor. Well, he’d devote some thought to it. There must be some bone he could throw Jonathan.

  As can happen in dreams, the scene changed instantaneously without a sense of transition. Thomas was suddenly in his bedchamber in Noir Mansion, but it was a transfigured room. It was three times the size of his actual room, and furnished in a rich, luxurious manner that bordered on the decadent. The bed was an enormous four-poster with silken sheets and velvet curtains, drawn back now as Thomas lay on it in anticipation. Full-sized floor mirrors glittered around the bed, throwing back Thomas’s reflection from all angles.

  He watched Trudi avidly as she stood at the foot of the bed, smiling languorously at him. Her smile was knowing and experienced, not at all like that of the innocent girl she’d seemed to be. She stepped out of her dress and slowly, seductively, removed all her undergarments until her naked glory was revealed to Thomas’s appreciative eyes. Her breasts were full and heavy, her arms round, her hips wide, her thighs sleek and strong.

  [148] Thomas approved. He’d made a good choice. It’d be some time before he tired of her quite apparent charms.

  She leaned forwards, putting her hands on the bed’s thick, soft, luxurious mattress. Her heavy breasts swayed with her movement, their reflection caught from all angles in the mirrors that surrounded the bed. Thomas patted the mattress by his side.

  “Come, my dear,” he said. “Time for you to be instructed in your wifely duties.”

  “Time for you, my dear,” she said in a sweet, husky voice full of promise, “to receive your just desserts.”

  Thomas liked the sound of that.

  Her smile widened, widened, and widened, her mouth melting and changing to that of a beast’s muzzle. Her teeth grew into fangs. Her sweet voice turned to a terrible roar as she sprang onto the bed on all fours.

  Suddenly terrified, Thomas could feel her hot breath all the way from the head of the bed. Her body was that of a voluptuous woman, but her head was the head of a lioness. Thomas recognized her. Somehow his Trudi had become Sekhmet, the fierce lioness-headed goddess of destruction and revenge. The punisher. The terrible Fury who when angered had to be restrained by all the rest of the gods combined lest she destroy all of humanity.

  Thomas cringed as she crawled on all four towards him. This is another test, he thought, it has to be. A test. Just a test. Then he remembered that the last strange ordeal he’d thought a test had really been meant to kill him.

  He screamed and scrabbled away from her. She rose up on her knees and threw her head back, her breasts [149] jutting forward, and roared in fury. Then she exploded into a hundred little black shapes that hurtled toward Thomas, flapping their wings and screeching.

  Birds. A flock of small black birds. Jonathan, Thomas thought giddily, would know what kind of birds they were. They collided against him and the bed’s headboard. He threw his arms over his face just in time to protect his features. He could feel their tiny bodies striking him. Most bounced away harmlessly. Some stuck by claw or beak. They picked at him, screeching insanely in tiny, twittering voices. He wanted to strike at them but was afraid to take his arms away from his face. Afraid of what their beaks and sharp little claws would do to his face. To his eyes.

  Realization came out of the dream fog, out of his bewilderment, that this was a chaos sign. A flock of birds, random and unpredictable, was a mark of the Apophis serpent. Someone was again trying to kill him with magic. Perhaps an enemy of the Captain was trying to remove him from the chessboard. Was trying to neutralize his presence in whatever game it was playing with the Captain. But Thomas could waste no time worrying about that. He had to protect himself. He had to think of something. He had to summon some sort of aid, or he could very well die in this dream.

  Set was the answer. He was the most puissant of the gods. He had been spared by the gods, specifically, as insurance against the might of the Chaos Serpent. Thomas called out aloud, crying Set’s name, praising him, promising him a lifetime of prayers, worship, and sacrifice for his help.

  [150] As suddenly as it had appeared, the Chaos Flock was gone. After a moment of silence Thomas took his arms from his face. They were nicked and scratched. Blood ran from them in a score of places, but there were no serious wounds. Set had saved him. Thomas smiled, his heart beat starting to return to normal.

  Then he felt the tiny, almost weightless feet scurrying upon the sheet under which he lay.

  Thomas looked down to see a horde of scorpions swarming up his bedclothes. There were scores of them. They were malignantly black. None were more than an inch or so long, but their minute size did not comfort Thomas. He knew from his reading of magical texts that generally speaking the smaller the scorpion the deadlier their poison.

  He was petrified with fear as they swarmed over him. They got under the sheet. They got under his silken robe and the garments he wore below He could feel their dozens of little clawed feet prickling his skin as they scuttled over every portion of his body, from his feet to his legs to his groin, abdomen and chest. Under his arms and over his throat. On his ears and in his hair.

  His only hope, Thomas thought, was to lie perfectly still. Lie perfectly still and not move an inch. Not a fraction of an inch. Give them no reason to strike.

  One crawled over his mouth, its tiny clawed feet probing his lips. Another scampered from his forehead over his left eyebrow and climbed over his eye lid and the eye itself. Thomas clenched his teeth in agony not to blink. A pair scuttled about his genitals, but he did not flinch. His heart was beating so rapidly that he could [151] feel it vibrate in his chest. But that, surely that, wouldn’t entice the creatures to sting.

  The moment endured, it seemed, for an eternity. Thomas prayed silently to Set for relief, but the god would not answer. To Hell with him, Thomas thought. He was just a figment of some sun-crazed Egyptian’s mind. Or maybe Set did help, for the creatures did not st
ing. Thomas started to think that maybe this was just a test, or maybe his prayers were efficacious. Maybe, like Sekhmet, like the Chaos Flock, the scorpions too would just go away.

  And then an agonizing pain struck him in the left armpit.

  A scorpion had planted its stinger in Thomas’s flesh. It was like a needle driven to the bone, a white-hot burning needle that was razor-barbed and coated with poison that slowly spread to the meat all around the insertion point.

  Worse, as if that were a signal, others struck almost simultaneously. On his neck and legs and abdomen and hands and back and too, too many places to count, scorpions plunged their stingers into his flesh. His body exploded in a universe of pain.

  Thomas gave a strangled cry and convulsively flung himself up out of bed. He was falling. He was falling, he knew, to his death. When he struck the floor he would be dead. His life would be over before it had even been lived. He would be cheated of his rights, his inheritance, of all the years he should have had as the head of Noir.

  And he heard a voice roar in disbelief in his head, “No! [152] No, he is NOT the one!” and the pain suddenly all left his body and he crashed to the floor beside his bed.

  “Owwwww.”

  Tangled in his sheets, Thomas automatically rubbed his elbow where it had struck the floor. He was soaked with sweat and his heart was hammering like a steam engine gone mad. But there was no blood on his arms. There were no scorpions on him or anywhere in the room. He was alive and intact but for a sore elbow.

  And despite all the pain, all the terror which had gripped him in his awful dream, he had recognized the voice in his head. He knew, now, who was trying to kill him.