But the simple fact was that rocks did not move. Not by themselves. They did not wear paths down cliffs to the sea. They did not give birth. They did not grow. They did not commit murder. They did not seek revenge.
Everyone knew this, he thought, as he watched the rocks move in his backyard. No one had ever seen a rock move.
Because they kill anyone who sees them.
They had killed his father, and now they had come to kill him.
Paul sprang up from his chair, overturning it, thinking of escape. Then he remembered. He was safe. Safe inside his own home. His hand came down on the windowsill and he stroked it. Solid walls between him and those things out there: walls built of sturdy, comforting stone.
Staring down at his hand on the white rock ledge, a half-smile of relief still on his lips, he saw it change. The stone beneath his hand rippled and crawled. It felt to his fingertips like warm putty. It was living. It flowed up to embrace his hand, to engulf it, and then solidified. He screamed and tried to pull his hand free. He felt no physical pain, but his hand was buried firmly in the solid rock, and he could not move it.
He looked around in terror and saw that the walls were now molten and throbbing. They began to flow together. A stream of living rock surged across the window-glass. Dimly, he heard the glass shatter. The walls were merging, streaming across floor and ceiling, greedily filling all the empty space. The living, liquid rock lapped about his ankles, closing about him, absorbing him, turning him to stone.
The Night
Before Christmas
Robert Bloch
I don’t know how it ends. Maybe it ended when I heard the shot from behind the closed door to the living room—or when I ran out and found him lying there.
Perhaps the ending came after the police arrived; after the interrogation and explanation and all that lurid publicity in the media.
Possibly the real end was my own breakdown and eventual recovery—if indeed I ever fully recovered.
It could be, of course, that something like this never truly ends as long as memory remains. And I remember it all, from the very beginning.
Everything started on an autumn afternoon with Dirk Otjens, at his gallery on La Cienega. We met at the door just as he returned from lunch. Otjens was late; very probably he’d been with one of his wealthy customers and such people seem to favor late luncheons.
“Brandon!” he said. “Where’ve you been? I tried to get hold of you all morning.”
“Sorry—an appointment—”
Dirk shook his head impatiently. “You ought to get yourself an answering service.”
No sense telling him I couldn’t afford one, or that my appointment had been with the unemployment office. Dirk may have known poverty himself at one time, but that was many expensive luncheons ago, and now he moved in a different milieu. The notion of a starving artist turned him off, and letting him picture me in that role was—like hiring an answering service—something I could not now afford. It had been a break for me to be taken on as one of his clients, even though nothing had happened so far.
Or had it?
“You’ve made a sale?” I tried to sound casual, but my heart was pounding.
“No. But I think I’ve got you a commission. Ever hear of Carlos Santiago?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Customer of mine. In here all the time. He saw that oil you did—you know, the one hanging in the upstairs gallery—and he wants a portrait.”
“What’s he like?”
Dirk shrugged. “Foreigner. Heavy accent.” He spoke with all of the disdain of a naturalized American citizen. “Some kind of shipping magnate, I gather. But the money’s there.”
“How much?”
“I quoted him twenty-five hundred. Not top dollar, but it’s a start.”
Indeed it was. Even allowing for his cut, I’d still clear enough to keep me going. The roadblock had been broken, and somewhere up ahead was the enchanted realm where everybody has an answering service to take messages while they’re out enjoying expensive lunches of their own. Still—
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he’s not a good subject for me. A Spanish shipping tycoon doesn’t sound like my line of work. You know I’m not one of those artsy-craftsy temperamental types, but there has to be a certain chemistry between artist and sitter or it just doesn’t come off.”
From Dirk’s scowl I could see that what I was saying didn’t come off, either, but it had to be stated. I am, after all, an artist. I spent nine years learning my craft here and abroad—nine long hard years of self-sacrifice and self-discovery that I didn’t intend to toss away the first time somebody waved a dollar bill in my direction. If that’s all I cared about, I might as well go into mass-production, turning out thirty-five dollar clowns by the gross to sell in open-air shows on supermarket lots. On the other hand—
“I’d have to see him first,” I said.
“And so you shall.” Dirk nodded. “You’ve got a three-o’clock appointment at his place.”
“Office?”
“No, the house. Up in Trousdale. Here, I wrote down the address for you. Now get going, and good luck.”
****
I remember driving along Coldwater, then making a right turn onto one of those streets leading into the Trousdale Estates. I remember it very well, because the road ahead climbed steeply along the hillside and I kept wondering if the car would make the grade. The old heap had an inferiority complex and I could imagine how it felt, wheezing its way past the semicircular driveways clogged with shiny new Cadillacs, Lancias, Alfa-Romeos, and the inevitable Rolls. This was a neighborhood in which the Mercedes was the household’s second car. I didn’t much care for it myself, but Dirk was right; the money was here.
And so was Carlos Santiago.
The car in his driveway was a Ferrari. I parked behind it, hoping no one was watching from the picture window of the sprawling two-story pseudo-palazzo towering above the cypress-lined drive. The house was new and the trees were still small, but who was I to pass judgment? The money was here.
I rang the bell. Chimes susurrated softly from behind the heavy door; it opened, and a dark-haired, uniformed maid confronted me. “Yes, please?”
“Arnold Brandon. I have an appointment with Mr. Santiago.” She nodded. “This way. The Señor waits for you.”
I moved from warm afternoon sunlight into the air-conditioned chill of the shadowy hall, following the maid to the arched doorway of the living room at our left.
The room, with its high ceiling and recessed fireplace, was larger than I’d expected. And so was my host.
Carlos Santiago called himself a Spaniard; I later learned he’d been born in Argentina and undoubtedly there was Indio blood in his veins. But he reminded me of a native of Crete.
The Minotaur.
Not literally, of course. Here was no hybrid, no man’s body topped by the head of a bull. The greying curly hair fell over a forehead unadorned by horns, but the heavily lidded eyes, flaring nostrils, and neckless merging of huge head and barrel chest somehow suggested a mingling of the taurine and the human. As an artist, I saw in Santiago the image of the man-bull, the bull-man, the incarnation of macho.
And I hated him at first sight.
The truth is, I’ve always feared such men; the big, burly, arrogant men who swagger and bluster and brawl their way through life. I do not trust their kind, for they have always been the enemies of art, the book-burners, smashers of statues, contemptuous of all creation which does not spurt from their own loins. I fear them even more when they don the mask of cordiality for their own purposes.
And Carlos Santiago was cordial.
He seated me in a huge leather chair, poured drinks, inquired after my welfare, complimented the sample of my work he’d seen at the gallery. But the fear remained, and so did the image of the Minotaur. Welcome to my labyrinth.
I must admit the labyrinth was elaborately and expensively designed and tastefully furnished. All
of which only emphasized the discordant note in the décor—the display above the fireplace mantel. The rusty, broad-bladed weapon affixed to the wall and flanked by grainy, poorly framed photographs seemed as out of place in this room as the hulking presence of my host.
He noted my stare, and his chuckle was a bovine rumble.
“I know what you are thinking, amigo. The oh-so-proper interior decorator was shocked when I insisted on placing those objects in such a setting. But I am a man of sentiment, and I am not ashamed.
“The machete—once it was all I possessed, except for the rags on my back. With it I sweated in the fields for three long years as a common laborer. At the end I still wore the same rags and it was still my only possession. But with the money I had saved I made my first investment —a few tiny shares in a condemned oil tanker, making its last voyage. The success of its final venture proved the beginning of my own. I spare you details; the story is in those photographs. These are the ships I came to acquire over the years, the Santiago fleet. Many of them are old and rusty now, like the machete—like myself, for that matter. But we belong together.”
Santiago poured another drink. “But I bore you, Mr. Brandon. Let us speak now of the portrait.”
I knew what was coming. He would tell me what and how to paint, and insist that I include his ships in the background; perhaps he intended to be shown holding the machete in his hand.
He was entitled to his pride, but I had mine. God knows I needed the money, but I wasn’t going to paint the Minotaur in any setting. No sense avoiding the issue; I’d have to take the bull by the horns—
“Louise!”
Santiago turned and rose, smiling as she entered. I stared at the girl—tall, slim, tawny-haired, with flawless features dominated by hazel eyes. The room was radiant with her presence.
“Allow me to present my wife.”
Both of us must have spoken, acknowledging the introduction, but I can’t recall what we said. All I remember is that my mouth was dry, my words meaningless. It was Santiago’s words that were important.
“You will paint her portrait,” he said.
****
That was the beginning.
Sittings were arranged for in the den just beyond the living room; north light made afternoon sessions ideal. Three times a week I came—first to sketch, then to fill in the background. Reversing the usual procedure, I reserved work on the actual portraiture until all of the other elements were resolved and completed. I wanted her flesh tones to subtly reflect the coloration of setting and costume. Only then would I concentrate on pose and expression, capturing the essence. But how to capture the sound of the soft voice, the elusive scent of perfume, the unconscious grace of movement, the totality of her sensual impact?
I must concede that Santiago, to his credit, proved cooperative. He never intruded upon the sittings, nor inquired as to their progress. I’d stipulated that neither he nor my subject inspect the work before completion; the canvas was covered during my absence. He did not disturb me with questions, and after the second week he flew off to the Middle East on business, loading tankers for a voyage.
While he poured oil across troubled waters, Louise and I were alone.
We were, of course, on a first-name basis now. And during our sessions we talked. She talked, rather; I concentrated on my work. But in order to raise portraiture beyond mere representationalism the artist must come to know his subject, and so I encouraged such conversation in order to listen and learn.
Inevitably, under such circumstances, a certain confidential relationship evolves. The exchange, if tape-recorded, might very well be mistaken for words spoken in psychiatric therapy or uttered within the confines of the confessional booth.
But what Louise said was not recorded. And while I was an artist, exulting in the realization that I was working to the fullest extent of my powers, I was neither psychiatrist nor priest. I listened, but did not judge.
What I heard was ordinary enough. She was not María Cayetano, Duchess of Alba, any more than I was Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes.
I’d already guessed something of her background, and my surmise proved correct. Hers was the usual story of the unusually attractive girl from a poor family. Cinderella at the high-school prom, graduating at the stroke of midnight to find herself right back in the kitchen. Then the frantic effort to escape—runner-up in a beauty contest, failed fashion model, actress ambitions discouraged by the cattle-calls where she found herself to be merely one of a dozen duplicates. Of course there were many who volunteered their help as agents, business managers, or outright pimps; all of them expected servicing for their services. To her credit, Louise was too street-smart to comply. She still had hopes of finding her Prince. Instead, she met the Minotaur.
One night she was escorted to an affair where she could meet “important people.” One of them proved to be Carlos Santiago, and before the evening ended he’d made his intentions clear.
Louise had the sense to reject the obvious, and when he attempted to force the issue she raked his face with her nails. Apparently the impression she made was more than merely physical, and next day the flowers began to arrive. Once he progressed to earrings and bracelets, the ring was not far behind.
So Cinderella married the Minotaur, only to find life in the labyrinth not to her liking. The bull, it seemed, did a great deal of bellowing, but in truth he was merely a steer.
All this, and a great deal more, gradually came out during our sessions together. And led, of course, to the expected conclusion. I put horns on the bull.
Justification? These things aren’t a question of morality. In any case, Louise had no scruples. She’d sold herself to the highest bidder and it proved a bad bargain; I neither condemned nor condoned her. Cinderella had wanted out of the kitchen and took the obvious steps to escape. She lacked the intellectual equipment to find another route, and in our society—despite the earnest disclaimers of Women’s Lib—Beauty usually ends up with the Beast. Sometimes it’s a young Beast with nothing to offer but a state of perpetual rut; more often it’s an aging Beast who provides status and security in return for occasional coupling. But even that had been denied Louise; her Beast was an old bull whose pawings and snortings she could no longer endure. Meeting me had intensified natural need; it was lust at first sight.
As for me, I soon realized that behind the flawless façade of face and form there was only a vain and greedy child. She’d created Cinderella out of costume and coiffure and cosmetics; I’d perpetuated the pretense in pigment. It was not Cinderella who writhed and panted in my arms. But knowing this, knowing the truth, didn’t help me. I loved the scullery-maid.
Time was short, and we didn’t waste it in idle declarations or decisions about the future. Afternoons prolonged into evenings and we welcomed each night, celebrating its concealing presence.
Harsh daylight followed quickly enough. It was on December eighteenth, just a week before Christmas, that Carlos Santiago returned. And on the following afternoon Louise and I met for a final sitting in the sunlit den.
She watched very quietly as I applied last-minute touches to the portrait—a few highlights in the burnished halo of hair, a softening of feral fire in the emerald-flecked hazel eyes.
“Almost done?” she murmured.
“Almost.”
“Then it’s over.” Her pose remained rigid but her voice trembled.
I glanced quickly toward the doorway, my voice softening to a guarded whisper.
“Does he know?”
“Of course not.”
“The maid—”
“You always left after a sitting. She never suspected that you came back after she was gone for the night.”
“Then we’re safe.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Her voice began to rise and I gestured quickly.
“Please—lower your head just a trifle—there, that’s it—”
I put down my brush and stepped back. Louise glanced up at me. “Can I
look now?”
“Yes.”
She rose, moved to stand beside me. For a long moment she stared without speaking, her eyes troubled.
“What’s the matter?” I said. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh yes—it’s wonderful—”
“Then why so sad?”
“Because it’s finished.”
“All things come to an end,” I said.
“Must they?” she murmured. “Must they?”
“Mr. Brandon is right.”
Carlos Santiago stood in the doorway, nodding. “It has been finished for some time now,” he said.
I blinked. “How do you know?”
“It is the business of every man to know what goes on in his own house.”
“You mean you looked at the portrait?” Louise frowned. “But you gave Mr. Brandon your word—”
“My apologies.” Santiago smiled at me. “I could not rest until I satisfied myself as to just what you were doing.”
I forced myself to return his smile. “You are satisfied now?”
“Quite.” He glanced at the portrait. “A magnificent achievement. You seem to have captured my wife in her happiest mood. I wish it were within my power to bring such a smile to her face.”
Was there mockery in his voice, or just the echo of my own guilt?
“The portrait can’t be touched for several weeks now,” I said. “The paint must dry. Then I’ll varnish it and we can select the proper frame.”
“Of course,” said Santiago. “But first things first.” He produced a check from his pocket and handed it to me. “Here you are. Paid in full.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you—”
Dark Forces Page 36