Boundaries (33 page)

“
U
hdarcknass
," wrote the chunky man in the below-ground-level apartment, "like
knowuthar
chasez
hymn
awl
over
thuh
plas
—and he looks
bahk
and
ittz
ganeingon
hymn
fasst
, he’s
knott
wonteeng
2b quick
enuf
oar he wants it to catch hymn, this
theeng
frum
insid
hymn. it
chaases
lika
dawg
awoolf
, a
murdereeng
theeng
and it wonts2
overwelm
hymn, eat hymn,
mak
hymn itself, butt
hee
is of a
bettr
mynd
and
duz
not want 2 go 4evr in2
darcknass
"

~ * ~

The man fishing from his small outboard motorboat at the center of Oneida Lake was the only person on the lake this windy day, and he was seriously considering going back to land because it looked like a storm was brewing.

He scanned the sky to the north, then to the west and east, then to the south. Solid overcast. God, when had those clouds come in?

Movement on land a quarter mile south caught his eye. He looked. His distance vision was very good but he could not be sure that he was seeing correctly. Was someone being carried toward the lake? Clearly, it was only a prank.

He glanced at the sky again.

Yes, a storm was coming.

He stowed his fishing gear quickly and started the outboard.

Soon, he was headed north, toward home.

After a few moments, he looked back, toward shore.

~ * ~

In the house that once belonged to Anne Case, Dorian fumbles for the light switch so he can go upstairs to the bathroom. He’s feeling a little nervous because he can’t find the light switch—he’s never been to the house before—and though he isn’t usually afraid of the darkness, here, on the stairs above him, it makes him nervous because his friends are still gathered in a circle and are waiting for him so they can continue with their séance.

"Where’s the light switch?" he calls.

"At the top of the stairs," Maude calls back from the opposite end of the big living room.

"At the top of the stairs?" He’s incredulous. Why would anyone put a light switch only at the top of the stairs? "You mean there isn’t one down here?"

"That’s what I mean."

"Oh."

"Do you want us to turn on one of these lights?”

“No," he answers at once. "It’s all right." He starts up the stairs.

He stops after a moment and peers hard into the darkness.

He believes that he sees something above him, on the landing. Something tall and stocky and mannish. Something with a large, oddly shaped head.

And he hears weeping, too, but very distantly, as if from behind the closed door of a huge room.

He looks back, toward Maude and the rest of the group. When he looks back, he sees nothing. But he can still hear weeping.

He goes upstairs.

~ * ~

A dog ran loose on the rocky beach where Christian carried David. The dog was small, white, skittish. Every few moments, she glanced over her shoulder. She was looking for two things—her owners, and other dogs that roamed freely around Sylvan Beach, one of which had already attacked her and had left her bleeding from her right flank.

Christian saw the dog heading his way and stopped walking. He said, "Hello, doggie," but the dog, busy glancing over her shoulder, didn’t notice him at first.

~ * ~

In the opening, in the light surrounded by darkness, David saw the lake, the beach. A white dog.

"Hello, doggie," he heard.

~ * ~

"Hello, doggie!" Christian repeated, angry that the dog hadn’t responded. He—Christian—was a wholly natural and spontaneous creature talking to another wholly natural and spontaneous creature, and he deserved a response.

The dog noticed him at last. She stopped walking abruptly and stared wide-eyed up at him, from ten feet away.

"Well,
say
something!" Christian insisted. "I can’t stand here all day!" David was getting heavy. The rocks were slippery. The wind was cold.

The dog continued to look at him. She didn’t know where to go. The unspoken message she was getting from this man was a message of anger, and the dog had dealt with much human anger in her life. But the lake was in one direction, and the other dog was behind her somewhere, and the road—cars—in the direction that remained, so the dog was at a real loss as to what to do. So, she did nothing. She froze.

Christian advanced slowly on her. "Don’t just
look
at me, dog. I’m
talking
to you. I am a
natural creature
, just as you are, and I am talking to you. I
expect
a coherent reply, dammit!"

Still the dog did not move. She sensed that, at any moment, the human would lash out at her. Humans had done that before. Often. She expected it. But still there was the lake in that direction, and the big, dark dog behind her, and the road over there

"You will
speak
when you’re spoken to!" Christian bellowed, and he kicked out at the dog.

The rocks were slippery.

His foot lost purchase.

~ * ~

“ . . . he’s
knott
wonteeng
2b
quik
enuf
oar he wants it to catch hymn, this
theeng
f rum
insid
hymn. it
chaases
lika
dawg
awoolf
, a
murdereeng
theeng
and it wonts2
overwelm
hymn, eat hymn,
mak
hymn itself, butt
hee
is of a
bettr
mynd
and
duz
not want 2 go 4evr in2
darcknass
and so
hee
runz
and
runz
awl
the time—god
hee
haz
2
oar
it will
kach
up with hymn . . . "

~ * ~

Christian started to go back. His arms flailed desperately. Futilely. He fell.

David fell with him.

Christian hit the rocky beach. First his lower back hit, which did no damage, then his left elbow, at the funny bone, which sent a flurry of pain up his arm; then his upper back, onto flat rocks, then the back of his head. He felt that. He lay for the briefest moment—one beat of a hummingbird’s wings—with his head supported at an awkward angle by a rock and his gaze wide and disbelieving.

Then David fell on top of him, across his chest, facedown.

There was a loud, moist crack as Christian’s neck broke.

The little white dog scurried off, feet scrabbling for a hold on the slippery rocks.

~ * ~

David saw light all around.

He felt wind on his face and back.

He smelled lake air. Fish. He heard the sound of something scurrying off.

What in the hell was he doing out here?

Somebody was beneath him.

"My God!" he whispered.

He tried his arms. They would not begin to lift him.

He tried to see who it was beneath him, tried to turn his head. It was no use. He saw only a hand, palm up, fingers curled slightly, on the rocks near his face. The hand was very close. Out of focus.

~ * ~

It was daylight in the room and nothing moved, except the dust. It covered everything. It moved as if from the force of wind, though there was no wind. It rose and scattered and collected itself, it wafted into the space of the room, settled, and collected.

The dust was dark. Like the earth.

It was made of earth.

~ * ~

"Are you all right?" David heard from a distance. He wanted to look up, to see who was calling. But he couldn’t.

"Are you all
right
?" the voice repeated.

"No!" David managed, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Help me!" But the wind covered the sound of his voice. Even he did not hear it.

~ * ~

In the room the days came and went like leaves turning over in a wind. Time was not measured well by them; the days measured only the passing of events—snow fell and covered the house to a depth of several inches, then was gone; a breeze passed through the house, pushed the dust about, and when it dissipated, the dust collected itself again.

The dust was sturdy and brown. It sat up a little as it collected itself, then it lay down again.

In the cellar, the things that existed there slithered up the stairs, pushing the darkness ahead of them as they moved, out the doors, over the windowsills.

They found the fields of clover empty.

They went into the cities; they pushed the darkness ahead of them as they moved.

And they found the cities empty.

They went back to their cellar.

They waited.

~ * ~

"Are you all right?" asked the face above David. It was a round face, gentle, old, and caring. The gray eyes were full of sympathy, the weathered cheeks raw and red from the cold wind.

"No," David managed. "I’m hurt."

"Yes," said the face, "I can see that. Let me help you." David felt himself being lifted by strong arms. "I’m afraid your friend is very badly hurt."

"Yes," David said.

"Perhaps worse."

David said nothing.

~ * ~

In the dark room, the dust collected itself, and stood. It looked about, and was frightened.

The dust felt no tug of gravity. It felt a tug from above. This was, at once, strange and comforting.

Eventually, the dust collected itself sufficiently that it scratched at an itch that had always bothered it. Then it stood and, without real purpose, moved about in the room. At last, it went back to where it had arisen.

It lay down.

It wept.

It laughed.

It remembered.

This is what it remembered:

Beverly looked at Stephen, and she saw a monster, something with a huge, misshapen head and bulbous eyes and a long, greedy tongue. She loved what she saw.
This
was her Stephen, and she knew that he was seeing her the same way, for the first time, and that he loved what he was seeing, too. Loved every repulsive, slavering, greedy,
human
part of her.