“You’ve read all three of Phil’s books,” she said, sitting down.
“Four,” Jack corrected. “He wrote that romance paperback under the name Abigail Cook.”
“God! You’ve done your homework.”
Jack smiled, a boyish grin on a man’s face. “That’s exactly what it is, homework. I’m a graduate student up at Fredonia State—”
Conversation was interrupted by an explosion through the door in the form of the twins and Bad Luck. “Dad’s here!” yelled Patrick, with Sean echoing his cry.
“Hold it down to a dull roar, kids,” commanded Gloria. As expected, she was ignored. The unpacking was a constant pain for Gloria, but the boys thought food from the local fast-food emporiums two nights running a treat.
Phil came through the hall door carrying two barrels of the Colonel’s best. Setting them down, he kissed Gloria on the cheek and said, “Hello! What is this? Cheating on me already?”
Gloria ignored the remark. “Phil, this is Jack Cole, a neighbor. He’s a fan of yours.”
Phil extended his hand and they shook. “Not many people pay attention to who writes a movie, Jack.”
“He’s read your books, Phil. All of them.”
Phil looked flattered and said, “Well then, Jack, there are fewer people still who’ve read my … Did Gloria say all of them?”
Jack grinned. “Even Winds of Dark Passion by Abigail Cook.”
“Well, I’ll be go to hell. Look, why don’t you join us for supper. We’ve both original and extra crispy, and there’s another bottle of beer where that one came from.”
Jack appeared about to beg off when Gabbie entered the kitchen carrying paper bags filled with rolls, potatoes, and other accompaniments for the chicken. She was on the verge of some comment when she caught sight of Jack. For a brief moment the two young people stood facing each other in an obviously appraising fashion, and equally obviously both approving of what they saw. Jack’s face slowly relaxed into his biggest smile so far as Gloria said, “Jack Cole, this is Gabrielle.”
Jack and Gabbie exchanged nods, while Phil ordered the twins to wash up. Gloria fought off the urge to giggle. Gabbie absently touched her collar, her cheek, and a strand of dark hair, and Gloria knew she was dying for a mirror, comb, and clean blouse. And Jack seemed suddenly unable to sit comfortably. Gloria glanced from Jack to Gabbie and said, “Right, one more for dinner.”
4
Dinner was relaxed. Phil and Gloria, Jack and Gabbie sat around the kitchen table while the twins ate sitting on a crate before the television in the parlor. Jack had spoken little, for his questions had coaxed Phil into explaining the family’s move from California.
“So then,” said Phil, “with Star Pirates and Star Pirates II being such tremendous hits, and with me getting an honest piece of the box office, as well as a creator’s royalty on Pirates III, IV, and however many more they can grind out, I have what I like to call ‘go to hell’ money.”
“‘Go to hell money’?” asked Jack.
Gabbie said, “Dad means that he got enough money to tell every producer in Hollywood to go to hell.” Gabbie had managed to find a mirror, comb, washcloth, and clean blouse and had barely taken her eyes off Jack throughout the evening.
“That’s it. Now I can go back to what I did first, and best: write novels.”
Jack Cole finished eating and sat back from the table. “You’ll get no arguments from me. Still, most of your films were pretty good. The Pirates films had darn good writing compared to most others in the genre; I liked that sly humor a lot—made those characters seem real. And the plots made sense—well, sort of.”
“Thank you, but even so, film’s more of a director’s medium. Even with an editor’s input, a book’s a single person’s product. And it’s been too many years since I’ve been able to write without story editors, directors, producers, other writers, even actors, all screaming for changes in the script. In films the writing’s done by committee. You’ve never lived until you’ve been through a story conference.” There was a half-serious, half-mocking tone to his voice. “Torquemada would have loved them. Some idiot from à multinational conglomerate who needs to have every line of Dick and Jane explained to him is telling you how to rewrite scenes, so the chairman of the board’s wife won’t be offended. Or some agent is demanding changes in a beautifully thought out script because the character’s actions might be bad for the star’s image. There are agents who would have demanded a rewrite of Shakespeare—have Othello divorce Desdemona because his client’s fans wouldn’t accept him as a wife murderer. Or the studio wants a little more skin showing on the actress so they can get a PG-13 rather than a G, ’cause they think teenagers won’t go to a G. It’s a regular Alice Through the Looking Glass out there.”
“Is it really that bad?” Jack asked.
Gabbie rose and began gathering up the paper plates and napkins. “If the volume of Dad’s yelling is any indication, it’s that bad.”
Phil looked wounded. “I don’t yell.”
Gloria said, “Yes you do. Several times I thought you’d smash the phone slamming it down after speaking to someone at the studio.” She turned to Jack. “You’ve been doing most of the listening, Jack. We haven’t given you a chance to tell us anything about yourself.”
Jack grinned as Gabbie replaced his empty bottle of beer with a fresh one, indicating he should stay a little longer. “Not too much to tell, really. I’m just a good old boy from Durham, North Carolina, who got a B.A. in English from UNC and wandered up north to study at SUNY Fredonia. I had my choice of a couple of different grad programs, including a tempting one in San Diego, but I wanted Agatha Grant as an adviser, so I pulled some strings and got her, and here I am.”
Phil’s eyes widened. “Aggie Grant! She’s an old family friend! She was also my adviser when I got my M.A. in modern lit. at Cornell. She’s at Fredonia?”
“Emeritus. She retired last year. That’s what I meant by pulling strings. I’m her last grad student. I’m after a doctorate in literature. In a few more months I’ll be taking orals to see if I get to continue, and an M.A. in passing. I’m doing my work on novelists who became film writers, on how work in films affects a writer’s work in print. I’m looking at writers who did both, like Fitzgerald, Runyon, William Goldman, Faulkner, and Clavell. And of course yourself. Though mostly I’m working on Fitzgerald. When I figure out the thrust of my dissertation, I’ll probably concentrate on him.”
Phil smiled. “You put me in some fine company, Jack.”
“It’s all pretty technical and probably pretty boring.” He looked embarrassed. “When the local papers printed the word you’d bought this place, I thought I might impose and get an interview with you.”
Phil said, “Well, I’ll help if I can. But I don’t have much in common with Fitzgerald. I don’t drink as much; I’m not having an affair with another writer; and my wife’s not crazy … most of the time.”
“Thanks,” said Gloria, dryly.
“I was going to call Aggie, and take a weekend and drive up to Ithaca. I had no idea she’d moved. First chance I have, I’ll get up to Fredonia and see her. God, it’s been years.”
“Actually, you don’t have to go to Fredonia. She lives on the other side of the woods now, right at the edge of Pittsville. That’s part of the deal. I double as something of a groundskeeper, general factotum, and occasional cook, though she prefers to putter in the kitchen most of the time. She only runs up to the university when she has to, commencements, a colloquium, guest lecture, the occasional alumni function, that sort of thing.”
“Tell Aggie I’ll be over in the next day or two.”
“She’s at NYU for the next two weeks. She’s editing a collection of papers for a symposium in Brussels. But she should be back right after. She wouldn’t miss the Fourth of July celebration in Pittsville.”
“Well then, as soon as she returns, have her give us a call.”
“She’ll be glad to know you’re back h
ome. She’ll whip up something special for the occasion, I expect.” Jack finished his beer and rose. “Well, I want to thank you all—for the hospitality and the dinner. It’s truly been a pleasure.” The last was not too subtly directed at Gabbie.
“I hope we’ll be seeing you soon, Jack,” said Gloria.
“If it’s not an imposition. I hike this area when I’m thinking around a problem in my thesis, or sometimes I go riding through the woods.”
“Riding?” asked Gloria, a calculating expression crossing her face. Jack’s presence had lightened Gabbie’s mood for the first time since they’d arrived, and Gloria was anxious to keep her diverted from any black furies.
“There’s a farm a couple of miles down the highway where they raise horses. Mr. Laudermilch’s a friend of Aggie’s, so I can borrow one sometimes. Do you ride?”
“Infrequently,” answered Phil, “but Gabbie here rides every chance she gets.”
“Oh?”
“Bumper—that’s my horse—he’s a champion Blanket Appaloosa. Best gymkhana horse in Southern California, and one of the best cross-country horses at Highridge Stables.”
“Never ridden an Appaloosa; they tend to be a little thick-skinned, I understand. But I guess they’re good working stock. Champion, huh? Pretty expensive, I guess.”
“Well, he’s a good one.…” Gabbie shrugged, indicating money was not an issue. Gloria and Phil smiled. Jack said, “Back home I had a Tennessee Walker. Per haps you’d care to go riding some afternoon, after you’re settled in?”
“Sure, anytime.”
“I’m going down to visit my folks in Durham, day after tomorrow. I’ll be there two weeks. When I get back?”
Gabbie shrugged. “Okay.”
“Well then. As I said, it’s been a pleasure. I do look forward to the next time.”
Phil rose and shook Jack’s hand. “Don’t be a stranger,” offered Gloria as Jack left through the back door. Returning to her husband’s side, she said, “So, Gabbie. Things don’t seem quite so bad, do they?”
Gabbie sighed. “Oh, he’s definitely a hunk; Ducky Summers would say, ‘He’s got buns worth dying for.’ But how am I going to keep from losing my lunch when he shows up with some retard rockhead, cold-blood farm horse? Ugh!”
Gloria smiled. “Let’s unpack another crate, then I’ll chase the boys to bed.”
Gabbie nodded resigned agreement, and Phil led her out of the kitchen. Gloria followed, but as she started to leave the kitchen she was struck by a sudden feeling of being watched, as if unfriendly eyes had fastened upon her. She turned abruptly and for an instant thought she saw something at one of the windows. Moving her head, she saw flickering changes in the light of the kitchen bulb as it reflected off imperfections in the glass. With a slight sense of uneasiness, Gloria left the kitchen.
5
Sean tried to settle deeply into the bunk bed. The smells were new to him. Old feather pillows had been dug out of a closet when it was discovered the boy’s familiar ones hadn’t been where they were expected to be, and despite the clean pillowcases, they had an ancient, musty odor.
And the house made strange sounds. Creaks and groans could be faintly heard; odd chitters and whispers made by creatures of darkness had Sean burrowing deeply below the heavy comforter, peeking out over the edge, afraid to relax his vigil for an instant.
“Patrick?” he whispered, to be answered by his brother’s deep breathing. Patrick didn’t share Sean’s fear of the dark. The first night Patrick had tried to bully his brother out of the top bunk—they had both wanted the novel experience of sleeping that high off the ground—but Mom had prevented a fight and Sean had picked the number closer to the one she had been thinking. Now Sean wondered at the whim of chance that put him in the top bed. Everything looked weird from up high.
The moon’s glow came through the window, and the light level rose and fell as clouds crawled slowly across the sky, alternately plunging the room into deep gloom and lightening to what seemed almost daylight. The dancing shadows had an odd pattern Sean had come to recognize.
Outside, an old elm tree rose beside the bedroom, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. When the moon was not obscured, the tree shadows became more distinct, making their own display. The thick leaves rustled in the night wind, casting fluttering shadows that shifted and moved around the room, shapes of ebon and grey that capered in mad abandon, filling the night with menace.
Sean watched the play of shadows with a thrill of danger that was almost delicious, a sweaty-palm-and-neck-hairs-standing sort of feeling. Then something changed. In the blackest part of the gloom, deep in the far corner, something moved. Sean felt his chest tighten as cold gripped his stomach. Moving in the wrong rhythm, against the flow of greys and blacks, it was coming toward the boys’ bunk beds.
“Patrick,” Sean repeated loudly. His brother stirred and made a sleepy sound as the shape began to slither along the floor. It would move a beat, weaving its way across the carpet, then pause, and Sean strained his eyes to see it, for when it was still, it would vanish. For long, agonizing moments he couldn’t see any hint of motion, then just when he finally relaxed, thinking it gone or an illusion, it would stir again. The maddeningly indistinct shape approached the bed slowly, at last disappearing below the foot of the bunks, out of Sean’s view.
“Patrick!” Sean said, scooting backward to the corner of the bunk farthest from the creeping shadow. Then he heard a sound of claws upon wood, as something climbed the old bedpost. Sean held his breath. Two clawlike shapes, dark and terrible in their deformity, appeared beyond the end of the bunks, as if reaching up blindly for something, followed an instant later by a misshapen mask of terror and hate, a black, twisted visage with impossible eyes, black opal irises surrounded by a yellow that seemed to glow in the gloom. Sean screamed.
Suddenly Patrick was awake and shouting and an instant later Gloria was standing in the door turning on the lights.
Phil was a moment behind, and Gabbie’s voice came through the door of her room. “What’s going on?”
Gloria reached up and hugged Sean. “What is it, honey?”
“Something.…” began Sean. Unable to continue, he pointed. Phil made a display of investigating the room while Gloria calmed the frightened boy. Gabbie stuck her head in the room and said, “What’s going on?” She wore the oversized UCLA T-shirt she used as a nightgown.
With a mixture of contempt and relief in his voice, Patrick said, “Sean’s had a nightmare.”
His brother’s tone of disdain caused Sean to react. “It wasn’t a dream! There was something in the room!”
“Well,” said Phil, “whatever it was, it’s gone.”
“Honey, it was just a bad dream.”
“It was not,” said Sean, halfway between frustrated tears at not being believed and a fervent hope they were right.
“You just go back to sleep and I’ll stay here until you do. Okay?”
Sean seemed unconvinced, but said, “’Kay.” He settled in and began to accept the idea he had been dreaming. With his mother nearby and the light on, the black face seemed a nightmare design, not a thing of solid existence.
“Brother,” said Patrick in disgust. He rolled over and made a display of needing no such reassurance.
Gabbie’s grumbling followed her back into her own room as Phil flipped off the light. Gloria remained, standing patiently next to Sean’s bunk until he fell asleep.
Outside the boys’ bedroom window, something dark and alien slithered down the drainpipe and swung onto the nearest tree branch. It leaped and spun from branch to branch as it descended, dropping the last ten feet to the ground. It moved with an unnaturally quick, rolling gait, a stooped-over apelike shape. It paused near the gazebo, looking back over its shoulder with opalescent dark eyes toward the boys’ window. Another movement, in the woods, caused it to duck down, as if fearing discovery. Bright twinkling lights flashed for an instant, darting between boles, and vanished from view. The dark cre
ature hesitated, waiting until the lights were gone, then scampered off toward the woods, making odd whispering sounds.
6
The house became a home, slowly, with resistance, but soon the odd corners had been explored and the ancient odors had become commonplace. The idiosyncrasies of the house—the strange little storage area beneath the stairs next to the cellar door, the odd shed in the back, the way the pipes upstairs rattled—all these things became familiar. Gloria considered her family: Gabbie wasn’t happy but had ceased brooding, and the twins shared their secret world, seemingly content wherever their family was. Gloria had been most concerned over their reaction to the move, but they had shown the least difficulty in adapting. The most positive aspect of the move had been in Phil’s attitude. He was writing every day and seemed transported. He refused to show Gloria any of his work so far, saying he felt superstitious. She knew that was so much bullshit, for she had talked out story ideas into the night with him before. She knew he was simply afraid she wouldn’t like what he was writing and the bubble would burst. All in good time, she thought, all in good time.
Seventeen days after Jack Cole’s visit, a note was delivered by the mailman. It was addressed to “Philip Hastings and Family.” Gloria opened it while Phil scanned a letter from his literary agent. “… look forward to presenting your newest work. Several publishers already have expressed interest.…” Phil read aloud.
“Read this,” Gloria instructed as she handed him the note.
He scanned the envelope and frowned. One of his pet quirks was about Gloria’s opening letters addressed to him, something she loved to do. “It said, ‘and Family.’ That’s me,” she said with mock challenge in her tone.
Phil sighed. “Defeated before I begin.” He read aloud. “‘Mrs. Agatha Grant invites Mr. Philip Hastings and family to dinner, Sunday, June 24. Cocktails at 5 P.M. Regrets only.’”
“What does that mean?”