The Box: Uncanny Stories (8 page)

Five minutes later he cringed out of a side door.

“Wasn’t
there
?” asked Sylvia for a third time.

“I
told
you,” snapped Frank, concentrating on his breaded cutlet.

Sylvia was still a moment. Then her fork clinked down.

“We’ll have to move, then,” she said. “Obviously, the authorities have no intention of doing
anything
.”

“What difference does it make
where
we live?” he mumbled.

She didn’t reply.

“I mean,” he said, trying to break the painful silence, “well, who knows, maybe it’s an inevitable cultural phenomenon. Maybe—”

“
Frank Gussett
!” she cried. “
Are you defending that awful Exchange
?”

“No, no, of course not,” he blurted. “It’s execrable. Really! But—well, maybe it’s Greece all over again. Maybe it’s Rome. Maybe it’s—”

“I don’t care
what
it is!” she cried. “It’s
awful
!”

He put his hand on hers. “There, there,” he said.

39-26-36
, he thought.

That night, in the frantic dark, there was a desperate reaffirmation of their love.

“It
was
nice,
wasn’t
it?” asked Sylvia, plaintively.

“Of course,” he said.
39-26-36
.

T
hat’s right!” said Maxwell as they drove to work the next morning. “A cultural phenomenon. You hit it on the head, Frankie-boy. An inevitable goddamn cultural phenomenon. First the houses. Then the lady cab drivers, the girls on street corners, the clubs, the teenage pickups roaming the drive-in movies. Sooner or later they had to branch out more; put it on a door-to-door basis. And naturally, the syndicates
are going to run it, pay off complainers. Inevitable. You’re so right, Frankie-boy; so right.”

Frank drove on, nodding grimly.

Over lunch he found himself humming, “
Margie. I’m always thinkin’ of you
—”

He stopped, shaken. He couldn’t finish the meal. He prowled the streets until one, marble-eyed. The mass mind, he thought, that evil old mass mind.

Before he went into his office he tore the little card to confetti and snowed it into a disposal can.

In the figures he wrote that afternoon the number 39 cropped up with dismaying regularity.

Once with an exclamation point.

I
almost think you
are
defending this—this
thing
,” accused Sylvia. “You and your cultural phenomenons!”

Frank sat in the living room listening to her bang dishes in the kitchen sink. Cranky old thing, he thought.

MARGIE

(
specialties
)

Will you stop!
he whispered furiously to his mind.

That night while he was brushing his teeth, he started to sing, “
I’m just a poor little
—”

“Damn!” he muttered to his wild-eyed reflection.

That night there were dreams. Unusual ones.

The next day he and Sylvia argued.

The next day Maxwell told him his system.

The next day Frank muttered to himself more than once, “I’m so tired of it all.”

T
he next night the women stopped coming.

“Is it
possible
?” said Sylvia. “Are they actually going to leave us alone?”

Frank held her close. “Looks like it,” he said faintly.
Oh, I’m despicable
, he thought.

A week went by. No women came. Frank woke daily at six a.m. and did a little dusting and vacuuming before he left for work.

“I like to help you,” he said when Sylvia asked. She looked at him strangely. When he brought home bouquets three nights in a row she put them in water with a quizzical look on her face.

It was the following Wednesday night.

The doorbell rang. Frank stiffened. They’d
promised
to stop coming!

“I’ll get it,” he said.

“Do,” she said.

He clumped to the door and opened it.

“Evening, sir.”

Frank stared at the handsome, mustached young man in the jaunty sports clothes.

“I’m from the Exchange,” the man said. “Wife home?”

In the
early autumn of the year 18—Madame Alexis Gheria awoke one morning to a sense of utmost torpor. For more than a minute, she lay inertly on her back, her dark eyes staring upward. How wasted she felt. It seemed as if her limbs were sheathed in lead. Perhaps she was ill, Petre must examine her and see.

Drawing in a faint breath, she pressed up slowly on an elbow. As she did, her nightdress slid, rustling, to her waist. How had it come unfastened? she wondered, looking down at herself.

Quite suddenly, Madame Gheria began to scream.

In the breakfast room, Dr. Petre Gheria looked up, startled, from his morning paper. In an instant, he had pushed his chair back, slung his napkin on the table and was rushing for the hallway. He dashed across its carpeted breadth and mounted the staircase two steps at a time.

It was a near hysterical Madame Gheria he found sitting on the edge of her bed looking down in horror at her breasts. Across the dilated whiteness of them, a smear of blood lay drying.

Dr. Gheria dismissed the upstairs maid, who stood frozen in the open doorway, gaping at her mistress. He locked the door and hurried to his wife.

“Petre!” she gasped.

“Gently.” He helped her lie back across the bloodstained pillow.

“Petre, what
is
it?” she begged.

“Lie still, my dear.” His practiced hands moved in swift search over her breasts. Suddenly, his breath choked off. Pressing aside her head, he stared down dumbly at the pinprick lancinations on her neck, the ribbon of tacky blood that twisted downward from them.

“My
throat
,” Alexis said.

“No, it’s just a—” Dr. Gheria did not complete the sentence. He knew exactly what it was.

Madame Gheria began to tremble. “Oh, my God, my
God
,” she said.

Dr. Gheria rose and foundered to the washbasin. Pouring in water, he returned to his wife and washed away the blood. The wound was clearly visible
now—two tiny punctures close to the jugular. A grimacing Dr. Gheria touched the mounds of inflamed tissue in which they lay. As he did, his wife groaned terribly and turned her face away.

“Now listen to me,” he said, his voice apparently calm. “We will not succumb, immediately, to superstition, do you hear? There are any number of—”

“I’m going to die,” she said.

“Alexis, do you hear me?” He caught her harshly by the shoulders.

She turned her head and stared at him with vacant eyes. “You know what it is,” she said.

Dr. Gheria swallowed. He could still taste coffee in his mouth.

“I know what it appears to be,” he said, “and we shall—not ignore the possibility. However—”

“I’m going to die,” she said.

“Alexis!” Dr. Gheria took her hand and gripped it fiercely. “
You shall not be taken from me
,” he said.

S
olta was a village of some thousand inhabitants situated in the foothills of Rumania’s Bihor Mountains. It was a place of dark traditions. People, hearing the bay of distant wolves, would cross themselves without a thought. Children would gather garlic buds
as other children gather flowers, bringing them home for the windows. On every door there was a painted cross, at every throat a metal one. Dread of the vampire’s blighting was as normal as the dread of fatal sickness. It was always in the air.

Dr. Gheria thought about that as he bolted shut the windows of Alexis’ room. Far off, molten twilight hung above the mountains. Soon it would be dark again. Soon the citizens of Solta would be barricaded in their garlic-reeking houses. He had no doubt that every soul of them knew exactly what had happened to his wife. Already the cook and upstairs maid were pleading for discharge. Only the inflexible discipline of the butler, Karel, kept them at their jobs. Soon, even that would not suffice. Before the horror of the vampire, reason fled.

He’d seen the evidence of it that very morning when he’d ordered Madame’s room stripped to the walls and searched for rodents or venomous insects. The servants had moved about the room as if on a floor of eggs, their eyes more white than pupil, their fingers twitching constantly to their crosses. They had known full well no rodent or insects would be found. And Gheria had known it. Still, he’d raged at them for their timidity, succeeding only in frightening them further.

He turned from the window with a smile.

“There now,” said he, “nothing alive will enter this room tonight.”

He caught himself immediately, seeing the flare of terror in her eyes.

“Nothing at
all
will enter,” he amended.

Alexis lay motionless on her bed, one pale hand at her breast, clutching at the worn silver cross she’d taken from her jewel box. She hadn’t worn it since he’d given her the diamond-studded one when they were married. How typical of her village background that, in this moment of dread, she should seek protection from the unadorned cross of her church. She was such a child. Gheria smiled down gently at her.

“You won’t be needing that, my dear,” he said, “you’ll be safe tonight.”

Her fingers tightened on the crucifix.

“No, no, wear it if you will,” he said. “I only meant that I’ll be at your side all night.”

“You’ll stay with me?”

He sat on the bed and held her hand.

“Do you think I’d leave you for a moment?” he said.

Thirty minutes later, she was sleeping. Dr. Gheria drew a chair beside the bed and seated himself.
Removing his glasses, he massaged the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Then, sighing, he began to watch his wife. How incredibly beautiful she was. Dr. Gheria’s breath grew strained.

“There is no such thing as a vampire,” he whispered to himself.

There was a distant pounding. Dr. Gheria muttered in his sleep, his fingers twitching. The pounding increased; an agitated voice came swirling from the darkness. “Doctor!” it called.

Gheria snapped awake. For a moment, he looked confusedly towards the locked door.

“Dr. Gheria?” demanded Karel.

“What?”

“Is everything all right?”

“Yes, everything is—”

Dr. Gheria cried out hoarsely, springing for the bed. Alexis’ nightdress had been torn away again. A hideous dew of blood covered her chest and neck.

K
arel shook his head.

“Bolted windows cannot hold away the creature, sir,” he said.

He stood, tall and lean, beside the kitchen table
on which lay the cluster of silver he’d been polishing when Gheria had entered.

“The creature has the power to make itself a vapor which can pass through any opening, however small,” he said.

“But the cross!” cried Gheria. “It was still at her throat—untouched! Except by—blood,” he added in a sickened voice.

“This I cannot understand,” said Karel, grimly. “The cross should have protected her.”

“But why did I see nothing?”

“You were drugged by its mephitic presence,” Karel said. “Count yourself fortunate that you were not also attacked.”

“I do not count myself fortunate!” Dr. Gheria struck his palm, a look of anguish on his face. “What am I to do, Karel?” he asked.

“Hang garlic,” said the old man. “Hang it at the windows, at the doors. Let there be no opening unblocked by garlic.”

Gheria nodded distractedly. “Never in my life have I seen this thing,” he said, brokenly. “Now, my own wife—”

“I have seen it,” said Karel. “I have, myself, put to its rest one of these monsters from the grave.”

“The stake—?” Gheria looked revolted.

The old man nodded slowly.

Gheria swallowed. “Pray God you may put this one to rest as well,” he said.

P
etre?”

She was weaker now, her voice a toneless murmur. Gheria bent over her. “Yes, my dear,” he said.

“It will come again tonight,” she said.

“No.” He shook his head determinedly. “It cannot come. The garlic will repel it.”

“My cross didn’t,” she said, “you didn’t.”

“The garlic will,” he said. “And see?” He pointed at the bedside table. “I’ve had black coffee brought for me. I won’t sleep tonight.”

She closed her eyes, a look of pain across her sallow features.

“I don’t want to die,” she said. “Please don’t let me die, Petre.”

“You won’t,” he said. “I promise you; the monster shall be destroyed.”

Alexis shuddered feebly. “But if there is no way, Petre,” she murmured.

“There is always a way,” he answered.

Outside the darkness, cold and heavy, pressed around the house. Dr. Gheria took his place beside the bed and began to wait. Within the hour, Alexis
slipped into a heavy slumber. Gently, Dr. Gheria released her hand and poured himself a cup of steaming coffee. As he sipped it hotly, bitter, he looked around the room. Door locked, windows bolted, every opening sealed with garlic, the cross at Alexis’ throat. He nodded slowly to himself. It will work, he thought. The monster would be thwarted.