Weird Tales #327

by Tanith Lee

  She sews each day, dreaming greater portions of their lives; weddings, the birth of grandchildren, recovery from breast cancer; all somehow being appliquéd over her own life worn thin with terror.

  Through some process that she doesn’t understand, the space inside is no longer a vase emptying as memories trickle away but a vivarium where new life is slowly and cautiously sprouting.

  For a month she stitches, creating a blanket of time. She fills it with fine cotton batting and edges it with a ribbon of blue silk that she embroiders with tiny leaves. When it’s done she lays it flat and admires it, sewn together so carefully that it seems all of one piece. She lifts it and holds it against her. She drapes it over her shoulders while she drinks her tea and grows warm in the quiet winter day.

  That night she sleeps wrapped in the quilt. She’s never dared this before, fearing that when the lives are returned to their rightful owners, she cannot survive the loss. She turns out the light breathlessly, a little frightened, and sleeps. For the first time, she has no nightmares, only dreams of the regular rhythms of passing lives. She wakes beneath the quilt to the trilling of birds outside. Brightness filters in through the half-closed blinds and she thinks, I’ll keep it, disappear with it. Even as she thinks the words she knows the quilt, the dreaming, can never be hers. A stolen life, whether in movies or books or dreams will never be your own.

  The Quilter gets out from beneath the quilt. She smoothes the creases and folds it gently, then places it in a box lined with tissue paper. She’ll call the father today and tell him it’s finished. While she fills the wood stove, feeding it first with small and then larger scrapes of wood and watches the fire come to life, she waits for the abandonment, the loss that occurs when memories have been returned, but in­stead there is the tickling of bare feet against newly sprouted grass. She looks around the room and fabric shimmers like the flame of candles, the scissors and pins like moonlight. She watches her hands as she puts the kettle on to boil and tea into her cup, and they seem to her a stranger’s, translucent in the sunlight and graceful in their knowledge.

  The Quilter goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth. She glances at the mirror and her image, floating usually in fragments that skim the surface of the smooth glass, nose, eyes, mouth, comes slowly together as a whole and she stares in astonishment, dropping the toothbrush against the white porcelain with a soft thud. She leans closer to the mirror and wipes clean the fragile mist of breath coating her reflection. This is her adult face. She has no memory of it, but knows it to be her own. Her hair is dark with a few thin silver ribbons like carefully placed stitches, her eyes wide and deep and hazel, and looking deeply into them she detects hope. She smoothes her hair away from her face and practices smiling with lips that will need experience. She leans in closer again, surprised and whispers to the delicate face like a newly drawn heart, “I’m awake.”

  Then hesitantly making itself known as possibility, a dream begins of a quilt with squares not yet collected.

  MEMOIRS OF A HORRORPHILE, by George Filip

  When I was but a melancholy boy

  transfixed by ghosts and ghouls

  all matters of things macabre

  my mother would, in troubled tones

  express her grave concerns

  for how such grisly goings-on

  would warp my youthful mind

  mystified by why such morbid

  works of wonder warmed my soul

  why such grim and gruesome works

  of wonder roused my restless soul

  most bewildered by my reverence

  for such things, she would berate me

  fearful that my tell-tale-heart

  would darken to a dreary shade

  perhaps that somewhere far beyond

  the wall of sleep, some lurking fear

  would turn her normal boy into

  some evil, twisted, graveyard-dwelling

  fiercely fanged nosferatu

  some sabbat-seeking sorcerer

  quite opposite the boy she knew

  but what she failed to fathom was

  that if perchance that void were broken

  such that all those things unspoken

  could cross over to our side

  I’d be that much more protected

  with my knowledge of unearthly

  wickedness in all its forms

  able to defend against those

  mythic monsters fashioned from

  those tales of terror that take wing

  when something wicked this way comes

  but disconcerted by my fervor

  for such phantoms that do dwell

  beneath an opera house of horror

  she still scolds me firmly for

  reading such appalling lore

  forever puzzled how such words

  could charm me to my very core

  how such passion for the pages

  of my favorite poets could

  inspire me to write like those

  written in the days of yore

  but write I will, forevermore

  FLICKER OF A WINTER STAR, by Tanith Lee

  as so often, from an idea by John Kaiine

  Ernestine was seventy-six when she went to live at Gracious Pines, and it felt like her first day at school.

  “This is the library. There is the conservatory. And now we have the dining-room, Ernestine.”

  It was all first names, both residents and staff. Here there were no such formalities — or were they courtesies? — as Mr or Mrs or Miss. And when they called you ma’am, it was a kind of joke. As if, by growing old, — (as by being very young) you had forfeited any right to — to what? Perhaps simply…a little distance.

  But this was: We are all a team. And above all, though you were paying through the nose for it, be grateful. Be cheerful. “Why such a long face, May-Ellen? That’s better, Donald, you’re in a good mood today.”

  Loathing herself, Ernestine smiled too, nodded, and looked pleased, appreciative, and willing.

  Inside, she thought, When is this awful young woman going to let me go?

  They reached Ernestine’s private room, and the Awful Young Woman, who was tall, pink, and pushy, with a scrubbed face and hardly any eyes (creased away by constant smiles?) herded her through the door.

  “Here’s the bed, the blinds, the bathroom.”

  Some strange shadows, Ernestine thought, almost like — but she was always over-imaginative, even Jim had used to say that. Besides, no time to daydream — the AYW was firmly announcing: “And here’s the bell if you have an accident or when you don’t feel so good.”

  “Am I very likely not to?” Ernestine inquired archly, and could have kicked herself.

  The AYW peered at her, beaming. “We have to take care, don’t we, Ernestine?”

  When she was gone, Ernestine saw the odd shadows had vanished. Instead, she wondered if she should search the two rooms for hidden devices of surveillance. There were some outside, here and there, in the corridors and the main rooms.

  Other elderly occupants of Gracious Pines had seemed to find them amusing, staring at themselves on camera as they went by, some chuckling, even pulling faces or preening.

  They had looked, despite the accident-and-not-feeling-good comments, a well-dressed and healthy lot. Gracious Pines did not accept anyone, of course, with a history of any serious mental or physical illness. And, (like school again) after a certain age, in this case eighty years, no one need apply.

  It was Lois who started it, last year, or even the year before that. Which meant it was probably Greg.

  “Oh, Mom, you can’t go on living in this house on your own.”

  “Why not?” Ernestine had asked her daughter, slightly surprised.

  “Mom — you’re seventy-seven —”

  “Seventy-five, dear.”

  “OK, seventy-five. And you don’t need all this running up and down stairs —”

  “I have never run up and down the stairs. Any stai
rs. Ever.”

  “Look, Mom, don’t be clever —” I (That too, like a mother with a child, which they were, except it was the wrong way around for this kind of dialogue). “I worry about you. Out here, miles from anyplace.”

  “I am absolutely fine.”

  “I have to be frank, Mom.”

  “Do you.”

  “You’re fine now. But what about in three more years, or ten more years?”

  “What about it?”

  “Greg has heard of this really great place. It’s like a luxury hotel.”

  The trouble was, Greg, Lois’s husband, had money and influence, and Ernestine had very little of either. The old house was wearing out, as she apparently was. One night there was a storm. It came up like blown breaths from the swamplands and the deep watery forests, and heaved off a quarter of the roof, and a falling shingle cut Ernestine’s leg, so she fetched up in the hospital. She was only there two days, but after that her daughter and Greg the Gruesome, as Ernestine had always thought of him, had their way.

  Oh, it was easier to give in. She had a fright. It was as if familiar things had turned on her like a rabid dog. What had been loving and secure and loyal was now dangerous and must be dispatched. Only it was she who was dispatched, and the house sold to developers. From its proceeds, and forcefully guided by Gruesome Greg, Ernestine soon found herself here.

  * * * *

  Breakfast was served at eight and dinner at six-thirty. When told of this, Ernestine had shrugged. One was too late and one too early — she had generally breakfasted at seven A.M., even six in summer, and eaten dinner at eight-thirty or nine. But she was back at school now. She could only accept the regime.

  The food was quite good, if resolutely on the health and fitness side. Ernestine rather liked large salads and fresh vegetables, but she ob­jected to the rationing of eggs (cholesterol) and booze. An occasional drinker, when she drank, she had never seen why she should not finish the bottle of wine — which at Gracious Pines was rapidly whisked away from her before she was quite half through, to be corked up and ‘kept cold’ for her ‘tomorrow.’ “But I haven’t finished.”

  “Now, now, Ernestine. We’ll have to keep an eye on you.”

  “Actually, then,” she said, giving in, “would you mind not putting the bottle in the refrigerator? It’s a red Burgundy, and I’d prefer it room temperature.”

  “Sure thing,” said the whisker-away. And next evening Ernestine was presented with the stale half-bottle, almost frozen and standing in a cooler. There was a bar, too, where they let you purchase a couple of drinks before dinner, (alcohol was not covered by the overall fees, like the library and the cinema-room). The bar had no idea of how to make a proper old-fashioned.

  Still, Ernestine supposed they were lucky to be allowed to drink at all, in sixth grade.

  The grounds (they were definitely grounds) were beautiful, as the great, stuccoed, mock-Italianate house was. There were terraces and flower-beds, long shallow pools with lilies and alcalpas. And surrounding everything, the massive pines which gave the place its name.

  Were they gracious, these trees? No, Ernes­tine thought not. They were too tall and strong, too powerful for that. Age had not withered them. Two hundred years old, some of them, so the brochure had said. They had been kept inside the walls as if to encourage the residents, most of whom, going on statistics, would reach a hundred and ten or so before graduation.

  * * * *

  The shadows returned to her room on the third night.

  Coming in and switching on the side-lamps, she looked at them and said aloud, (one of the supposedly bad habits of living so long alone) “Now I guess you’re here again tonight because I’m getting bored.”

  It was strange though. The shadows were not as they had been the first morning, between the lifted blinds and the bed, trailing over a little on the satin comforter. Now the shadows were between the armoire (you could not call it a clothes closet) and the bathroom door. And even so, they were the same shadows.

  “I wonder,” said Ernestine aloud, “just what makes you.”

  It was probably the stale wine making her tipsy, where fresh would not have done. Anyway, Ernestine went over and tried to see around the lamp, around the armoire, the doors of which she opened and closed several times.

  She discovered nothing except an overlooked spider, which she left in peace.

  The shadows had gone again.

  “Oh well. I suppose it’s none of my business. I don’t mind you. Do as you want.” That night as Ernestine lay in the dark in bed, her curtains parted and one blind raised just a crack to show her starlight over the gardens, she heard a wolf howl across the lawns of Gracious Pines.

  No, it was not a dog. She knew what a dog sounded like. Wolves too, from long ago, camping with Jim high in those mountains all those miles from here, and from now. Lovely fearful lonely sound, redolent of night, open spaces, and the moon. Then it stopped, and silence came again.

  Ernestine slipped out of the bed, like a young girl wakened by some magical intuition.

  Standing at the window, she raised the blind higher.

  Below, the vast backyard lay with its stone urns. In the starlight — despite the howls, no moon was visible — the manicured grass, the balustrades, looked cool and blue. There was a smoky sheen to bushes and to trees, and the lilies poised sleeping on the nearest pool like white pods containing exciting dangers, aliens, or unborn swans —

  Ernestine chided herself. She heard Jim’s voice in her head, “You should write a story, honey. You sure got all the ideas for one.” But she had never needed to write. These dreams were not for others, not even to be revealed to pen and paper. Just for herself, and sometimes Jim.

  The wolf howled again. Ernestine jumped, and stared across the lawns, into the luminous dark depths of the pines. Her distance vision was pretty good —

  What was that? There, running, low and curious, animal, yet not entirely — but so swift and — boneless —

  Gone now. Quite gone. Things…did go.

  * * * *

  Descending to the dining-room next morning, Ernestine met Coral, the gossipy woman who wore a silk tent to breakfast, pearls to lunch, and diamonds at dinner.

  Perhaps, Ernestine thought, she could ask Coral, who spoke constantly about everyone and thing, as they bore relation to herself, if wolves were ever come across in this neck of the woods, and if Coral had heard the one last night. Coral forestalled her.

  “There’s been a demise.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Not what you think. Not just some old-timer cashing in his chips.” Coral was a mere infant, sixty, or so she said. “A violent death.”

  “Really?” Ernestine sounded, she herself felt, heartlessly fascinated. One could only blame boredom for so much. “Who was it?”

  “Well, I heard it was Donald.”

  “What happened?”

  “Why, someone killed him. Out in the grounds last night.”

  This is too obvious, Ernestine thought. She frowned, and Coral took that as a judgement.

  “You can look as disapproving as you like. They say it was an animal, but animals don’t get in here. The walls are too high and the gate is closed up nights. And we have our private patrol-men. They were the ones who found Donald, I heard.”

  “How was he — I mean —”

  “You want the grisly details, huh? His throat was cut. Yes! And I’d take a bet it was Louisa. He’s been stringing her along for three whole years. A girl can only take so much.”

  The dining-room was horribly perked-up, Ern­es­tine saw at once.

  “Come sit at my table,” said Coral be­stow­ingly, sweeping through in her silk and scent of Avoir Chaud. “I’ll take the orange and grapefruit juice, and whole wheat toast with the raspberry preserve. Black tea. Oh, Louisa, come sit with us!”

  Normally death was a repetitious and dreary event, ominous to the inmates and irksome to the staff. But this death by violence was more like the
times of youth, when others fell by the wayside and could be pitied and picked over, often without personal alarm.

  “Now tell me,” said Coral to the woman who was serving their food, “Nancy, come on, what happened to Donald?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. The way I figure, wild dog musta got him. A real mess.”

  “Did you sleep well, Louisa?” Coral asked pointedly, but Louisa only stared at her oatmeal and did not eat any. “I’m sorry, Louisa,” said Ernestine. But Louisa did not answer.

  Across from them, Lionel barked, “Pack of lies. I saw that body. Fell down the Goddam steps in the dark and bruk his neck, the old fool.”

  “Should he have been outside?” Ernestine asked innocently.

  “Always up to something,” said Lionel, who had once been connected, in a minor way, to the Senate, it was reported, doubtless falsely. “Goddam maniac. They need to fix those God­dam steps.”

  Coral flounced. Whether at the expletives or the ordinariness of neck-breakage, Ernestine was not sure.

  The police came an hour after. They had driven all the way up from Lake Naro, in two indiscreet cars, with some paramedics in another vehicle.

  The residents gaped from windows at LNPD. antics on the lawns and among the urns. Everyone was high as kites, sparkling with animation and speculation, and Coral blatantly ordered a glass of champagne with her lunch: “It’s the only thing’ll quiet my nerves.”

  Of course, no one told them anything now, and when they asked they were headed off. George, who had ambled out and tried to get a closer look, was sent back in, in disgrace.

  “Didn’t see a blame thing. Just some cop’s butt stuck up in the air. Cute police gal though.” Presently the ambulance drove away, and the police cars with it. Some of the higher caste of the staff then came into the lounge, where most of the residents still lingered, to address them.

  It appeared than Donald had had an accident, falling down the stair from the terrace, where he had been most ill-advised to be so late at night — after ten, it seemed. The accident had caused his ‘passing.’