Nebulon Horror

by Cave, Hugh

  Melanie Skipworth and Olive Jansen prepared a meal in the kitchen. Seven-year-old Jerri Jansen lay tummy-down on a rug in the living room, with crayons and a coloring book. On the living room sofa Keith Wilding browsed through a seed catalogue.

  As the darkness slipped in, they turned lights on without thinking. Outside, the nursery paths and then the smaller growing things vanished. There would be a moon later. There was nothing now except a washed-out afterglow in the western sky. That faded, and the taller nursery trees disappeared with it. Except for the rectangles of yellow light marking the cottage windows, there was nothing.

  Suddenly the evening quiet exploded with a sound of glass breaking.

  To the four occupants of the cottage it was a familiar sound after what had happened last night. But this was not a window; it was something outside. Keith looked up from his reading. The sound was repeated. His face a thundercloud, he pushed himself off the sofa and flung the door wide.

  Another crash. Still another. He was able to determine the direction of the sounds now; they came from nearby, off to his right. It could be only one thing. Someone was stoning the greenhouse.

  His anger was such that he forgot he was responsible for the safety of the others. Storming out of the house, he went striding along the path in the darkness. When he heard even more panes of glass being smashed, he broke into a run.

  Then all at once he guessed why the intruders were doing what they were doing.

  He halted. Breathing heavily, he turned and looked about him and saw or thought he saw shadows moving past him on both sides. It was hard to be sure, but the darkness appeared to be in motion here and there.

  Then he saw the fire beetles again. Some floated a few feet above the ground and seemed to be watching him to see what he would do next. Others moved slyly through the darkness toward the house.

  There at the house, light spilled from the front door he had left open. Melanie and Olive stood in the opening. A lane of illumination reached along the walk, their elongated shadows within it.

  He raced back to the house, reaching it just in time. Stumbling over the threshold, he all but knocked down the two women as they sought to get out of his way. Jerri was with them, he noticed. He lurched about to slam the door shut.

  As he did that, the first two speeding shadows reached the edge of light on the walk and he saw them. At least, he saw what seemed to be two small, pale faces with glowing eyes. Realizing their moment of opportunity had passed, the pair abruptly halted, and the look of triumph on their faces swiftly changed to one of fury. They darted back into the darkness.

  But he had seen them. He had seen their faces and the change of expression. He was sure of it. Leaning against the closed door, he looked at the two frightened women facing him. "Did you see what I saw?" he asked dazedly.

  Olive said woodenly, "Two children. One was the little Voight girl. Oh, my God, what's going on?"

  "There's a gang out there. They tried to lure me out so they could get in here. At least, that's what I think." He straightened himself away from the door and turned to make sure it was locked. "Check the windows, will you?" He ran through the house to make sure the back door was locked too. Returning to the living room, he waited for the women and Jerri to join him, and then said, "I'm going to call the police."

  He went to the telephone and began to dial, but realized there was no hum in the instrument. He tried again and put the phone down. "They must have cut the wire. They're smart. Keep away from the windows. They may start throwing stones again." He walked about the room, his face twisted with concern. "What the hell do they want, anyway?" He looked at Jerri. "Do you know what they want?"

  The child stood motionless for a few seconds, returning his stare, then wagged her head. Her eyes were red too, he saw. At least, they were becoming so. They were not yet the glowing fire beetles he had seen outside.

  He frowned at Melanie and Olive. "All right. They want something. What is it?"

  "Maybe they've just gone kind of wild," Olive suggested. "You know? Kids do, don't they? Older ones, anyway. If they get mad about somethin' that's happenin' at school or around town, they form a gang and begin smashin' things." Her voice ran down and the room filled with an accusing silence. Neither Keith nor Melanie bothered to answer her.

  Jerri began to whimper.

  "Oh, shut up!" Olive said. "If you'd tell us what you know about this, we might have an idea what to do!"

  "Olive, no," Mel said. Leading Jerri to a chair, she sat down and lifted the child onto her lap, and when Jerri's whimpering seemed to subside a little she said, "Do you know who's out there, baby?"

  Jerri shook her head.

  "Well, if one of them is Debbie Voight, isn't it likely the others, too, are kids in your class at school?"

  "I don't know."

  "Was it these children who broke the windows at the apartment last night?"

  "I don't know."

  "Mel, you're just wastin' your time," Olive said.

  Mel moved the child off her lap and stood up. "I guess I am. And I don't mind telling you I'm no saint either. I'd like to smack her. Keith, there's food in the kitchen. Are you hungry?"

  He shook his head.

  "Olive?"

  "No. Not now."

  "Are you hungry, young lady? Or has the cat got your appetite along with your tongue?"

  Climbing onto the chair Mel had vacated, Jerri began sobbing.

  Suddenly the lights went out. All the lights in the house. One moment the three grown-ups were watching the child as she made herself small on the chair and uttered plaintive murmuring sounds. Then the room was totally black except for a dim reddish glow emanating from the same child's eyes.

  "Damn them," Keith said. "Mel, do we have any candles?"

  "In the kitchen. I'll get them." She felt her way into the kitchen and found them, then called back, "I can't find any matches."

  "I knew I never should have quit smoking," Keith grumbled.

  "I have a lighter in my purse," Olive said. Fumbling her way into the bedroom she and Jerri and Vin had used last night, she eventually found the purse and the lighter, and Keith put candles about the house. In the living room he sat again. "Those kids are smart little monsters," he said. "They must have found where the wires run to the meter on the side of the house and yanked them out."

  Olive said, "But how? It's dark out there."

  "I think they can see in the dark. I've said so before. I think Jerri can, too." He glared at the child on the chair. "Can you?"

  The child only whimpered, and Melanie's low voice interjected, "Keith, I know it's hard, but don't. She could become hysterical, and then things would be even worse."

  He nodded, and for a few minutes no one spoke. Then he said, "What to do? We can't phone. We can't get out of here. Or can we get out of here? We have two cars out there."

  "Isn't that what they want?" Melanie said. "For us to leave, so they can get us in the open?"

  "And do what? They're children. Three of us are adults."

  "What if it was these children who killed Tom Ranney and the Ianuccis? They may have some power we don't understand. Something awful is going on in this town, Keith."

  Silence again except for Jerri's low sobbing. The two candles in the living room sputtered and flickered. Shadows moved on the walls and across the tense faces of the three grown-ups.

  Melanie said, "I think you were right in what you said before. They were trying to lure you out there so they could get at us in here. Maybe they feel they can handle two women and a child, but not a grown man." Her voice ran on tonelessly. "Tom Ranney and the Ianuccis were old. You're not. Have you noticed they stopped stoning the greenhouse when their plan didn't work?"

  "We have to do something, Mel. We can't just sit here."

  Olive said, "Vin will be here soon, won’t he?"

  Keith frowned, remembering the stone that had struck Vin above the eyes last night. "There's that, too. He'll be alone. They may try to stop him." He sta
rted across the room.

  "Where are you going?" Melanie asked in alarm.

  "Just to see what's happening."

  "Don't go out there!"

  "I'm not going out there." He stopped at a window where the room was darkest, where there would be the least chance of his being seen. Even so, he was careful not to stand directly at it but knelt and looked through a lower corner. The two women watched him in silence.

  After a while Olive said, "Do you see anything?"

  "They're out there. It's black as pitch, but those damned glowing eyes give them away." Those red eyes were giving him the creeps, too, he admitted to himself. Of course, they probably were not all that red, really. They only seemed to be because the night was so black. But there was no longer the slightest doubt that the points of red were eyes, not insects. You could see they were paired.

  He watched the paired red dots moving about in the dark of the nursery. How large was the gang out there? Eight, nine, ten? About that many. It was not possible to be sure.

  Rising from his knees, he returned to the center of the room and said, "How can we warn Vin not to come barging in here? How, damn it? How?"

  Melanie said, "If those are children, their parents are bound to wonder why they don't come home, Keith. Won't they call the police?"

  "That won't bring the police here."

  "Well, it might eventually. They know we were attacked last night."

  "I feel like a kid myself," Keith said bitterly. "Helpless. And with two cars sitting out there."

  Melanie said, "Even if we could get to the cars and get away, what about the house? They might wreck it."

  He nodded.

  "Are you sure you don't want something to eat, hon?"

  "No. I want to keep an eye on them. God knows what they'll think of next."

  "A cup of coffee, then?"

  "Well, all right. Coffee."

  Melanie went into the kitchen. Olive gazed angrily at Jerri whimpering on the chair, and after a while went to her and tried to soothe her. Just as Melanie came from the kitchen with coffee mugs on a tray, the room suddenly burst into brightness. From one end to the other it lit up in a blaze of crimson.

  Melanie froze in her tracks. Her hands began shaking and she stared at the front windows and said in a plaintive voice, "Oh no, oh no . . ." A mug of coffee slid from the tray and crashed on the tiled floor.

  Keith swore as he ran to one of the now crimson windows. Heedless of the risk of being cut by flying glass if a stone came through, he stood with his hands clenched, looking out. The two cars in the road were bonfires hurling furious columns of flame and smoke high into the night. Everything near them was bright as day.

  He could see the greenhouse reflecting the fires' redness, its broken panes staring darkly back at him like empty eye sockets. He could see motionless children at the edge of the light, peering expectantly toward the house. Nearer, he saw shadows gliding closer among the trees, seemingly waiting for him to come charging out so they could cut him off and rush their objective.

  But what was their objective? What did they want?

  20

  On leaving the nursery cottage after his examination of Jerri Jansen, Doc Broderick glanced at the watch on his wrist. What the hell, he thought, it's early yet. If I'm going to beard old Yambor in his den, I might as well do it now.

  Doc never drove slowly. Some twenty minutes later he turned his car into the driveway of a large, handsome old white house and parked it beside a large, ugly old black-and-gilt sign. The sign read: VICTOR YAMBOR M.D.

  Dr. Yambor, frail and white-haired, stood on the front veranda and leaned forward as Doc approached him. He looked, Doc decided, like an ancient long-necked chicken about to peck at a worm.

  "Norman Broderick, isn't it?"

  "That's right, Victor."

  "Damned disgrace, driving a car as expensive as that. Don't you know it makes all of us look bad in the eyes of the public?"

  "Bought it secondhand," Doc lied with mock gravity. "Always wanted to look as successful as you, even if I'm not."

  "You look like a walking protest against barbershops. Why don't you get a haircut?"

  "I had it in mind to do just that this afternoon but decided to come here and sit at the feet of wisdom instead."

  They shook hands and the older man led Doc inside to a cool, spacious sitting room. He said, "Sit," and disappeared for a few moments, leaving Doc to look around. It was at least four years since Doc had called on Victor Yambor. The house was unchanged. Apparently nothing had changed the man either, or ever would.

  Dr. Yambor returned with a tray on which were two long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of Madeira. He set the tray on a table between Doc's chair and the one he obviously intended to occupy. Before seating himself, he filled the two glasses and handed one to his guest.

  "Now then," he said, making himself comfortable with the other glass, "what's stumping you?"

  "I couldn't be here just to say hello?"

  "Of course you couldn't. You young squirts never come to see me unless you want something."

  "I've got some youngsters with pink eyes."

  Yambor sipped his wine and leaned forward, frowning. "Have you? Now that's interesting. You mean pink eyes that can't be squeezed into any ordinary diagnosis, of course. Otherwise a man like you wouldn't be here."

  "Thanks. You know what's been happening in Nebulon, I suppose."

  "The mayor's son disappearing? The murders? Yes."

  "The kids I'm talking about are involved somehow. At least, I think they are. The mayor's boy was one of them. Fact is, they've all been hanging around together at the home of a patient of yours."

  "Elizabeth Peckham."

  Victor Yambor emptied his glass and refilled it. He put the full glass on the tray. He was already scowling but tugged his mouth into a deeper scowl by pulling at his jowls. "Elizabeth Peckham. There's a strange woman, Norman."

  "I know. She used to be my patient. Remember?"

  "I wish she still were."

  "Thanks for nothing. But about these kids and their eyes . . . the redness comes and goes without any apparent reason. Now you see it, now you don't. There's no inflammatory aftereffect. No nothing. I've a strong hunch, though, there's a pronounced heightening of nighttime vision while the condition is there."

  "Nice big words," Yambor said, crookedly grinning. "You mean they can see in the dark? You can't be serious."

  "I'm serious, Victor. I'm not the only one who's noticed it."

  Dr. Yambor folded his bony hands across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. His eyes closed. He spoke with them closed. He said, "Odd, your coming to me with a thing about eyes involving Elizabeth Peckham. Did you know old Gustave Nebulon?"

  "Just to nod to."

  "She was his girl friend. You know that?"

  "I've guessed at it. That's all you're doing too, I suspect."

  "No, I know. He told me." Yambor opened his eyes, gazed at the old high ceiling for a moment, and then lowered his gaze to Doc's face. "Old Gustave was almost blind when he died. You didn't know that, I'll bet."

  "Uh-uh." Doc was truly surprised and let his face show it.

  "Blind and bitter. Bitter as gall. Toward the end he was too nearly blind to leave the house, and I called on him maybe twice a week. He'd have the front door open for me. The old codger wouldn't have a housekeeper, you know. But I'd always find him upstairs in what he called his study. There he'd be at his desk, blinking at me like a half-blind toad, with a magnifying glass in his hand and a book in front of him. Maybe half a dozen books. He had a thing about life after death. Wouldn't accept the fact of dying. No, sir, that wasn't for the last of the Nebulons. 'You finally got here, did you?' he'd growl at me in that guttural accent of his. 'Sit down!' Then for half an hour I'd have to sit there while bitterness poured out of him like sewage. My God he was bitter. The town didn't appreciate what his family'd done for it, he'd snarl at me. It was a 'slough of ingradidude'—one of his favorite expre
ssions. Why, there wasn't even a statue with the name Nebulon on it. Even the park hadn't been given his name. On and on he'd go, hating the town and everyone in it. Then he'd get after me for not curing his blindness."

  Old Yambor stopped long enough to permit an interruption, and Doc Broderick said, "How in the world could Peckham have been the girl friend of such a man?"

  "She must have guessed he wouldn't last long."

  "And would leave her well off, hey?"

  "That's my hunch."

  "Victor, the Madeira warms my heart, and listening to you has always been a weakness of mine. But what about the red eyes on those kids?"

  Yambor leaned back in his chair again. After a while he said, fiercely scowling, "They can't see in the dark, of course. Not unless Hans Christian Andersen sired the lot of them. Maybe they can see a little better in the dark than you or I."

  "But the redness. The glowing."

  "Can you bring one of these kids to me, Norman?" Doc thought of Jerri Jansen and nodded.

  "Why don't we wait until you do that, then? Have some Madeira."

  "No," Doc said. "I'd better run along." He stood up and they shook hands. "I'll come tomorrow with a youngster, maybe."

  On the way back to Nebulon he thought about what Dr. Yambor had told him, especially about Gustave Nebulon's near blindness. Then he began pondering the string of mysterious happenings in the town that had been named for the blind man's family.

  That queerly ugly business of Jerri Jansen, Teresa Crosser, the frog, and the sharpened nail.

  The finding of old Tom Ranney with his eyes gouged out.

  The discovery of the bodies of Nino and Anna Ianucci with their eyes removed.

  Eyes, eyes, eyes. What was it with the eyes?

  It was dark when Doc reached home. He parked his car in the garage and went into the house through a connecting door. Striding through the professional lower floor, he climbed the stairs to his living quarters. He was prodigal with lights and turned them on as he went, so that when he reached upstairs the whole house was ablaze.

  What am I going to have for supper, Doc asked himself. He decided on eggs; they were easy. "You know," he said aloud, "You're as bad as old Gustave. You need a housekeeper." Just last week, when the girl who did his laundry had failed to show up, he had gone to a do-it-yourself laundry and done it himself. For some reason nothing had come out quite clean.