Late at Night

by William Schoell

  “I’ll say.” She took his hand. “Come on—let’s try down here.”

  In the last room she noticed that there was another doorway in the far wall which turned out to lead to yet another side-to-side corridor further back in the building. There was a whole new set of rooms, and it was much darker here, as the sun was on the other side of the mansion. There was still no furniture around, but this would have to do. Cynthia shut the door they’d come through and pulled Jerry down to the end of this second hallway. Jerry laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want to go up and explore the attic? We’ve come this far.”

  What a tease, Cynthia thought. “No, I don’t want to explore the attic. Besides. We don’t know how to get up there.” The stairs had ended on this, the fourth floor.

  “There’s probably an entrance, a trap door or something, in one of the rooms. Maybe in the closet. Why don’t we—” Before he could finish, Cynthia untied the front of her blouse and let the material swing free to either side, revealing her substantial bosom. “Here,” she said.

  Jerry’s leer was in place again. “Is that what you wanted to show me?”

  “That and a whole lot more.”

  And then Jerry’s mouth was clamped over hers, and his fingers were squeezing her breasts, and she knew she had been right all along—he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. All those people out there, her fans, thought she led a racy lifestyle, but they didn’t know, they couldn’t know, the long shooting days, the hours of memorizing scripts, the fear of being mobbed that kept her out of single bars, all the interviews, the photo-sessions—how could they know how lonely it left her, how bereft of time to meet people, to make love, to enjoy the presence, the company of a man? How could they know how lonely she was?

  Jerry was working his hand into the back of her pants, rubbing her ass, sighing salaciously and digging his tongue into the back of her throat. She held him closer; felt giddying sensations as her breasts rubbed sensually against his chest, her mammaries against his pecs, her lips melded to his lips, their arms and legs blending together.

  This is no cure for loneliness, Cynthia thought, but it sure is nice consolation.

  Then her pants were down, off, thrown away. Jerry’s pants hung about his ankles, metal buckle jangling as he grunted and pumped. His lips worried at her neck, pressing sweet kisses into the skin. She felt a thrill inside her, unstoppable, building, building.

  They collapsed onto the floor now, not heeding the cold wood, the dust, the grime. All that mattered was getting off, reaching that ultimate point, quickly, quickly. Jerry’s thrusts were frenzied; Cynthia was squealing out loud. Any moment now, any second …

  And then from behind the wall where they were tangled together, something started knocking.

  Chapter 26

  The necromancer stood alone in the dark, listening to all the sounds that were surrounding it. Who first? How shall I test my power this time? What shall I do? I can do anything!

  Anything at all!

  The necromancer wanted to test its strength, find out exactly what its limits were. It needed a way to show off its abilities.

  And what better way than to use those who were now in the house, blissfully unaware of who was stalking them, unaware that they were pawns in a struggle they had no inkling of.

  Yes.

  Those useless, simpering fools would be the perfect guinea pigs, the perfect subjects for the necromancer to test its mettle on. The necromancer knew it was time to give its first full-scale performance. What had happened in the guest house the night before had been but a prelude, the opening movement to a veritable symphony of terror.

  There could be no turning back.

  The necromancer began summoning all the psychic energy around it, drawing all that energy to its body, absorbing it, controlling it, letting it build up stronger and stronger in its mind. Then —expelling it, shaping the very forces as they flew from its body, using those forces to disturb the tiny creatures: the rodents, the insects, the vermin infesting the walls and cellars of the house. The energy nipped and pecked at the minds of the little beasties, infuriating them, driving them to a passionate hunger and a savage anger that nothing, that no one, could stop.

  Next the necromancer chose the creatures’ victims. It decided against killing those already in the house—for now. Instead it picked two others. They had been huddled out in the woods together, afraid to enter the mansion with the rest. But now, driven by curiosity and impatience, they had gone exploring, had descended into the passageways below the house where the vermin—the worms and rats and spiders—would be waiting patiently for them.

  Footsteps! The necromancer opened its eyes. Hurry. Hurry! You mustn’t be seen like this.

  The door opened.

  “Oh there you are,” someone said. “What are you doing in the dark?”

  But it was too late. The forces had been set in motion, and the two sacrificial victims were doomed. Nothing could stop it from happening.

  The necromancer was back to normal now, a human being just like any other.

  The necromancer stepped out of the shadows, smiled. “Come in. This really is a lovely room in here.”

  Chapter 27

  “Let’s go back, Emily. I’m scared.”

  Joanne Nobele looked back towards the beginning of the passageway, and wondered why she had ever been crazy enough to come down here. Emily was going onwards like a woman possessed, determined to see if the passage they were in led into the house where the others were. She’d been so scared before, that Emily, clinging to Joanne as if her life depended on it, time and again refusing Joanne’s suggestions that they go look for the others. Now look where they were. If there was anything creepier than that old house with its wicked, toothsome grin, this was it.

  “Emily. Wait up. I can’t walk as fast as you.”

  “Hurry up!” the other girl scolded. “I can hardly wait to see the look on their faces when we pop out and go ‘boo.’ I think it’ll be a scream.”

  Joanne caught up to her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Listen, Nancy Drew. My ankle hurts and my feet are tired. If you won’t go back with me, at least give me a minute to rest.”

  “Scaredy cat.”

  “Oh shut up. You were the one who was running around last night without any—” Then Joanne shut her mouth before she could say any more. Amazingly, Emily had not recalled a thing this morning about her encounter with the figure in the mirror. All that business of her screaming about blood, running around naked—it was as if it had never happened. Mrs. Plushing got Joanne to promise that she wouldn’t bring it up. “Why dredge up bad memories, and frighten the darling?” the old woman had said. Which was too bad, because Joanne, who was not yet convinced that what she had seen the night before was a mere hallucination, would have liked to have sat down with Emily and compared notes.

  “What did you say?” Emily asked her.

  “Oh never mind. But if you run off before I’m through resting, I swear I’ll go back without you.”

  “No!”

  Joanne could tell she had struck a nerve. Emily would do as she was told as long as she thought she’d be otherwise abandoned. She really did have a compulsion to see this through. Well, at least it was daylight, fat lot of good that did them down here in the dark with only two old torches to see them through.

  It had all started as they stood at the end of the clearing, waiting to see if any horrible screams should tear out of the mansion once the others were inside. But no—apparently they’d gotten into the house all right, and were not in any danger. But time dragged on and on, they got restless, relaxing their guard, getting used to the location, getting bored. Emily had wanted to look around a bit. Joanne kept pushing Emily to go with her to the house. “What’s the use?” her friend had said. “As soon as we get there they’ll be coming out. And I won’t go into the place alone.”

  But then Emily had walked a little ways into the woods and called out to Joanne, “Come quick,” and Joan
ne discovered that her friend had come upon a crumbling old gazebo sitting there squat and complacent in the middle of some tall clumps of weeds. In the center of the wooden structure there was a big hole with steps leading down. The door over the hole lay a few feet away, pulled off its hinges. “I bet this is a secret passage,” Emily said excitedly. “I just love secret passages, don’t you?” And suddenly she’d been a little girl again, determined to go down those steps into the darkness and find out where the passageway led. Going up and entering the maw of that strangely living house had been one thing; entering this hole yards away from the house was another. To Joanne’s mind, one was as bad as the other—maybe this was worse—but Emily’s mind was made up. “I’ll leave you alone in the woods,” she threatened. Joanne relented. It wasn’t so much that being alone in the clearing would be scary, but rather that it wouldn’t be much fun.

  Still there had been other considerations. “We haven’t any light, Emily,” she pointed out. “How will we see our way?”

  Emily was halfway down the wooden steps. “There’s a big wooden torch stuck on the wall,” she yelled. “I’ve got matches. I bet I can light it.”

  And to Joanne’s dismay, she did. Later on they found another torch in a notch in the wall, which Emily lit and gave to her.

  Then there was the matter of the safety of what they were about to do. “What if there’s a cave-in?” Joanne suggested. “We’ll be buried alive. That passage is ancient. It might not be safe to go in there.”

  “Come on,” Emily had whined. “It’s probably just a little room under the gazebo.”

  But no, it had turned out to be an underground passageway leading in the direction of the house. There had been a few small twists and turns—the floor rose or fell at intervals—but nothing to indicate that it was changing direction. All we need, Joanne said to herself, is to wind up miles away at the other side of the island or, heaven help us, under the sea.

  The floor of the passage was made of tightly packed dirt crunched down from years of travel. The sides were formed of a crusty, yellowish rock that had tiny cracks and crevices on its surface. Once Joanne looked closely at the rock and thought she could see some tiny undulating mass squirming in some of those crevices, but she quickly turned away and pretended both to herself and to Emily that she simply had not noticed.

  There was a warm breeze blowing through the tunnel. Sometimes it was blowing against their faces, other times it was blowing in the opposite direction, pushing them gently, gently into the depths of the passage. It was for all the world like the breathing motions of a living animal, air in, air out, over and over again. Joanne realized with no small horror that it was like walking down a throat. She thought of mentioning this to Emily but knew the other girl, living out her fantasy of being a great adventurer, would ssshh her and tell her she was silly. Emily had once gone into some caverns with her cousins and fancied herself a seasoned spelunker.

  The passage began to ascend. The air was hotter, and they heard moaning sounds as if they were entering the lair of a wheezing, gasping organism. “Let’s go back, Emily!” Joanne screamed, not afraid now to fully reveal her terror. Anything to convince her friend that it simply wasn’t safe to go on. What if there were ghosts down here? Terrible shuffling things like the one she’d thought she’d seen in her room last night. What if they appeared to her now, dragged her kicking and screaming into that house way above, making her a captive in some never-ending nightmare? “Emily. Please. Let’s go back.”

  Emily seemed finally to hear her. “Shut up!” she said viciously. Her face looked surly, animalistic, alien. Joanne thought the girl was on the verge of actually snarling at her. “We’ve come this far,” Emily continued in a softer, more natural tone. “I think I see a chamber up ahead.” She looked into the darkness before them, holding the light up high. “Maybe a cavern. More likely the basement.” She looked back to Joanne and spoke to her as if she were a teacher instructing a slightly backward child. “We’ll find our way up from the basement and sneak through the house until we spot the others. And then…”

  “Emily!” Joanne’s eyes had strayed to the tunnel wall again. Emily’s face had looked so strange for a minute there, it had scared her. She had turned away from Emily, and her eyes were caught by the tiny crevices again, the movement within them, and then she took a good hard look and felt sick deep down inside. The crevices were filled with little squiggling worms, their tiny white bodies rubbing and twisting and squirming through the collected mass of the others as if they were feasting maggots. “Emily. Do you see?”

  Emily had seen and she seemed temporarily unnerved. Joanne didn’t know which would be worse, going back through the passage knowing they were surrounded on all sides by worms, or going ahead into the cellar to face whatever horrors were in there.

  Emily made the choice for them by stepping forward.

  “Wait for me,” Joanne said, terrified that her friend should leave her behind. Having someone else down there with her was the only thing holding her together. Without Emily, she was afraid her heart would just stop on her and she’d plummet dead to the passage floor.

  Several yards beyond they did indeed step out into a rather large enclosure. It was a sub-basement with a dirt floor. Joanne felt relief. It looked harmless enough, just a vacant cellar with large mounds and small bumps of earth underfoot. Surely there’d be a staircase leading upwards, and they’d be out the front door in no time. She prayed that the others had not yet left. Emily could jump out and scare them; she would run to them and beg them to take her back to the guest house—or she would go alone, risk getting lost in the woods. Anything to get away from here.

  But then she turned back to look behind her as they stepped out into the cellar. And in the light from the fiery torch she could see that the walls had come alive, that hundreds, thousands of the bugs, those slithering, sickening white worms, were dropping out of those crevices, filling up the tunnel and blocking off the exit.

  “Emily!”

  Emily was walking around the enclosure, looking for a way to get upstairs. She did not look happy. “Joanne, I can’t find—”

  Some kind of flying bug flew into her face, mashing into her lips. Emily dropped the torch, and rubbed her mouth, spitting again and again on the ground. The torch had landed near one of the walls. Joanne looked at the section of wall illuminated by the torch’s light, and saw that it, too, was full of worms, squeezing out of their holes as if attracted by the fire.

  Still, Joanne would not extinguish the flame. She would not stay down here in the dark.

  “Something hit me,” Emily was saying. There was blood on her mouth, her fingers, smeared on her grotesquely. Joanne said helplessly: “This place—it’s full of them. We have to get out.”

  Then something was in her hair, and Joanne was screaming, her hands up in the air trying to pull whatever it was out of the tangled locks. Emily was screaming, too. Little brown shapes were skittering across the ground, running towards them. There was some kind of grating in the far wall, she could see it now, and the little brown shapes were coming from in there.

  Emily stepped back in alarm as one of the things scampered over her foot. Suddenly she was tangled in a bunch of wooden boxes, packing crates covered with cobwebs. The sticky webbing adhered to her face, her hair. Trying to untangle herself she began kicking the boxes aside, then tripped and fell on top of a large open one on the bottom.

  The crate was full of thousands upon thousands of tiny, scattering spiders.

  Emily tried to step back, to get away from the eight-legged creatures even now pouring out of the box by the hundreds, but it was too late. Even as she was trying to pull herself up off the ground, dozens of the arachnids were crawling all over her face, getting in her hair, popping into her mouth as she opened it wide to scream. Her vision was blocked by the things as they covered her eyeballs, eating through the eyelids to get at the round juicy morsels below. Her skin was on fire from a hundred little bites, and she f
elt the spiders wriggling up her sleeves and down the inside of her clothes. Within seconds, she was a shaking, frenzied mound of living organisms, entirely smothered in the devouring vermin as they feasted upon her. Within moments, the mound lay still on the cellar floor, still but for the voracious bugs as they dug into the skin of the girl and began eating their way down to the bones.

  Joanne would have looked on this spectacle with horror were it not for the fact that she was too busy trying to stay alive herself. The brown things, rodents, were filling up the basement now, running to and fro as if driven into madness by a maniacal Pied Piper. There seemed to be no sense to their movements, as if they’d lost their equilibrium or had no idea of which direction to go. Joanne lowered her torch and could see that the floor was now a living carpet of writhing worms— perhaps they were responsible for the rodents’ strange behavior. Out from every hole in the house they came, the white squiggling larvae-like creatures, all of them moving with—Joanne suddenly realized—some determined purpose, as if by part of a grand design. From the tunnel behind her, from the floor, from the walls, they seemed to be gathering together at one specific spot.

  Joanne’s blood froze as she realized what that one specific spot was.

  It was the spot she was standing on.

  There were worms on her shoes, worms on her legs, worms on her clothes, and worms on her arms. They were crawling up her jeans, sliding across her neck, burrowing into her skin wherever they touched. Joanne began to slap and scream, squashing as many of them as she could. But there were so many—too many. Before she knew it she was covered with them, and felt her whole body stinging from blistering, scabrous sores where the boring creatures had made entry into her very flesh.

  There were worms eating her lips.

  Joanne tumbled onto the ground, insensate from horror. As she fell she crushed scores of the worms under her body. Her hands and knees were sticking in an ungodly mash of gray and red viscous matter. If her eyes had been able to understand and accept what they were seeing, capable of sending messages to her brain, receiving them, she would have seen that there was no flesh anymore—only worms.