Head cases Page 3

The man with the bulge looked at his wristwatch, which was plated with fake gold. "Sister, it five o'clock. It already tomorrow, and I goin' by tomorrow time."

  "Sorry," she said, folding her arms. "Cigarette weather."

  "What the hell?" the man said.

  His companion, a pasty-looking blonde, grabbed his arm. "Forget it, Jerry. I got some back at my place."

  "This bitch tellin' me it ain't tomorrow yet," he said.

  Army Jacket cleared his throat and straightened himself. "Sir, she's only doing her job," he said, looking down at the man from a four-inch height advantage.

  "She's only doing her job," Cynthia said.

  "Don't get smart with me, bitch." The man raised the wine bottle as if he were going to swing it. Army Jacket stepped forward and grabbed his wrist, taking the bottle with his other hand. The man grunted and the aroma of vomit and cheap booze wafted across the room. He struggled free and headed for the door, the blonde following.

  At the door, the man paused and squeezed the bulge in his pants. "Got something for ya next time," he said. The blonde pulled him cussing toward the street.

  Army Jacket placed his coffee cup on the counter.

  "You get a lot of weirdoes on this shift," Cynthia said.

  "I already said that. When do you get off work?"

  They had breakfast in a little sidewalk cafe. Cynthia ordered coffee and butter croissants and scrambled eggs. Army Jacket was a vegetarian, but he said he could eat eggs. Cynthia thought that was strange, because eggs weren't vegetables.

  They reached Cynthia's apartment just before noon. "So, where's this bed of yours?" Army Jacket asked.

  Cynthia had a few boyfriends in high school. After the beggar had started sleeping under her bed, she'd quit dating. But now that Army Jacket was in her apartment, she decided that she'd been foolish to face the fear alone. She'd give Army Jacket what he wanted, and then she'd get what she wanted.

  She led him to the tiny bedroom. She half-suspected that the beggar crawled from beneath the bed while she was gone, to sleep between cloth sheets and dream of being human. But the beggar belonged to dust, the dark, permanent shadow of underthere. The blankets were rumpled, just as she'd left them.

  "You don't mess around, do you?" Army Jacket said.

  "It's only dust," she said.

  "I didn't mean that kind of mess," he said, looking at the dirty laundry scattered on the floor. He sat on the bed, Cynthia watching from across the room, waiting to see if the gray hand would clutch his ankle.

  He patted the mattress beside him. "Come on over. Don't be shy."

  She looked out the window. "Looks like cigarette weather."

  Army Jacket took off his army jacket. Without the jacket, he was just a David. Not a protector. Not some big, brave hero who would slay the beggar.

  "Come on," he said. "This isn't a spectator sport."

  She crossed the room, crawled onto the bed beside him, mindful of her feet. They undressed in silence. David kissed her, then clumsily leaned her back against the pillows. Through it all, she listened for the breathing, the soft knitting of dust into flesh, the strange animations of the beggar.

  David finished, rolled away. "Where are the cigarettes?"

  "I don't smoke."

  "What's this about 'cigarette weather,' then?"

  "The man with the anaconda face said that."

  "Huh?"

  She put her arm across his chest, afraid he'd leave. She scolded herself for being so dumb. If David left, she'd be alone again when darkness fell. Alone with the beggar.

  David kissed her on the forehead. "Ocean eyes like ice cream," he said.

  She tensed beside him, sticky from the body contact. "Did you hear that?"

  "What?"

  "Under the bed. A noise."

  "I don't hear anything." David made a show of checking the clock on her dresser.

  The soft choking sound came again, the painful drawing of an inhuman breath. The beggar stirred, fingers creeping like thick worms across the floor. He was angry, jealous. Cynthia should not have brought another man to this bed. Cynthia belonged to the beggar, and always had.

  "He's coming," she said.

  David sat up and looked at the door. "Damn. Why didn't you tell me you had a boyfriend?"

  "Only crazy people talk to mirrors."

  David reached off the bed, grabbed his clothes, and began dressing. " You're crazy, Alice."

  "Who's Alice?"

  David ignored her, teeth clenched in his rush to pull up his pants. "I hope to hell he doesn't carry a gun."

  "Shhh. He'll hear you."

  David slipped his arms into his jacket. Now he was Army Jacket again, just another one of them, a hollow man, a mound of dust surrounding a bag of air. None of them were real.

  Except the man under the bed.

  Army Jacket struggled into his shoes. Cynthia leaned forward and watched, wondering how far the beggar would let Army Jacket get before pulling him into the velvet.

  "Green licorice. Frightened of storms?" Army Jacket asked, his breath shallow and rapid.

  "No, only of him."

  "Razor in the closet since yesterday." Army Jacket tiptoed out of the room, paused at the front door and listened.

  "He doesn't use the door," Cynthia called out, giggling. The beggar would slide out from under the bed any moment now, shake of the accumulated dust of his long sleep, and make Army Jacket go away.

  The phone rang. It had to be Mom. Seven rings before Mom gave up.

  Army Jacket swallowed, twisted the knob, and yanked the door open, falling into a defensive crouch. The hallway was empty.

  "Allergies," he yelled at her, then slipped out the doorway and disappeared.

  Cynthia fell back on the pillows, sweat gathering on her brow. The beggar hadn't taken him. The beggar had not been jealous. The beggar was too confident, too patient, to be jealous.

  She clutched the blankets as the afternoon sun sank and the shadows grew long on the bedroom wall. She should have fled while it was still light, but her limbs were limp as sacks of jelly. Fleeing was useless, anyway. He'd always had her.

  Dusk came, dangling its gray rags, shaking lint over the world.

  Under the bed, stirrings and scratches.

  Under the bed, breathing.

  Cynthia whimpered, curled into a fetal position, nude and burning and vulnerable. Waiting, like always.

  The hand scrabbled along the side of the mattress. It clutched the blankets and began dragging the body that wore it from the vague ether. Cynthia closed her eyes, tight like she had as a small child, so tight the tears pressed out. She trembled, her sobs in rhythm with the horrible rasping of the beggar's breath.

  She could feel it looming over her now, its legs formed, the transition from dust back to flesh complete. Cynthia held her breath, the last trick. Maybe if she could hold her breath forever…

  The hand touched her gently. The skin was soft, soft as velvet.

  Cynthia almost screamed. But she knew what would happen if she screamed. Because Mommy might hear and things like this are secret and it's okay to touch people who love you but some people wouldn't understand. Bad girls who scream have to be punished. They have to be sent into the dark place under the bed.

  And they have to stay under the bed until Daddy says it's okay to come out.

  So Cynthia didn't scream, even as the hand ran over her skin, leaving a trail of dust.

  She didn't make a sound as the beggar climbed onto the bed. If she was a good little girl, then the beggar would go away after he finished, and wouldn't drag her into the underthere.

  The dust settled over her, a smothering blanket of velvet.

  If only she could hold her breath forever.

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  By John Everson

  “There is no poetry in death,” Mrs. Tanser said. “Only loss and rot, stink and waste. I never could understand those gothic romantics who celebrate the dark and lust after the cycle of decay.”

&nbs
p; The little girl in front of her didn’t say a thing, but nodded creamy, unblemished cheeks as if she understood.

  “I suppose that doesn’t make much sense to you,” Mrs. Tanser continued, running a powder-coated finger up the girl’s cheek. “You came here hoping to sell cookies and to visit my nieces, and here I am talking to you about death! But I can’t deny death, mind you. Everything has its place. And every place, its thing.”

  The older woman laughed, and stood up from the table. Her plate of thinly sliced apples remained untouched, uneaten, the brown creep of time already shadowing the fruit. The girl’s plate, however, glistened with the juice of apple long gone.

  Mrs. Tanser ground a pestle into a tall bucket that squeaked and shifted on the counter as she worked.

  “Well, I'm sorry my nieces Genna and Jillie aren’t here any longer. They only came for a visit, so I'm glad you got to meet them. Perhaps you’ll have the chance to be with them again soon. But I talk too much and time passes. Too fast, too fast. Eat my apples dear. Waste not, want not.”

  The plate slid across the table. Mrs. Tanser raised a silver eyebrow as it did.

  “You are afraid of this house, aren’t you?”

  The child nodded, slowly. Her eyes were blue and wide, and the reflection of the older woman’s methodic grinding and pummeling of the substance in the bucket glimmered like a ghost in their mirror.

  “I can’t say that I’m surprised. Quite the reputation it has. I didn’t realize that when I moved in, but now it makes sense what a steal it was. I knew there was something wrong when the realtor quoted me the price-you could see it in her face. She was afraid, that silly woman was, not that she knew why. A beautiful old mansion like this, perched on the top of the most scenic hill in town? I have to admit, I didn’t care what was wrong with it-for that price, I thought, I could fix it. And then I moved in, and started teaching down at Barnard Elementary, and I found out why that girl was scared. You know, she wouldn’t even walk into the house past the front foyer?”

  Mrs. Tanser laughed. The pestle clinked against the top of the bucket, and a hazy cloud puffed from the opening like blown flour.

  “The one warning that woman said to me was, ‘You know, it’s a bad place for children.’ I didn’t even ask why. ‘I don’t have any,’ I told her. That shut her up. Or maybe it didn’t, I didn’t care. I walked up those gorgeous oak stairs that wind out of the living room and up to the boudoir. I wanted to see it all, with or without her help. She didn’t come with me.”

  Mrs. Tanser stopped her grinding then and considered. “Would you like to see the upstairs?” she asked.

  The little girl shrugged, and the older woman dropped the pestle.

  “That settles it. Genna and Jillie aren't here, but I can still show you the house. Come on upstairs. I’m going to show you the most beautiful four-poster bed your little eyes have ever seen. The girls loved it! It may be the only four-poster bed your little eyes have ever seen.”

  The girl rose from the table, hands held straight at the sides of her red and green striped skirt. She wanted to leave, felt embarrassed that she'd been coaxed into staying somehow. Her freckles threatened to burst into flame as she waited for Mrs. Tanser to wash her hands in the sink.

  “C’mon then,” Mrs. Tanser said at last, and led the girl back towards the front door she’d come in. Her backpack from school still lay abandoned on the floor nearby. Mrs. Tanser put a foot on the first varnished step, and then paused.

  “What’s your name again then, young lady?”

  “Tricia,” the girl answered, in a voice high as a flute song.

  “Tricia,” Mrs. Tanser announced, waving at the crystal jewels of the chandelier above, and the burnished curves of the banister on the second floor landing above.

  “Welcome to White House,” she said. “Welcome to the House of Bones.”

  At the top of the landing, Mrs. Tanser stopped again. “This house was built in 1878 by Garfield White,” she announced. “I looked it up. He was a railroad man, made his living helping folks move their steel and wood and food and such from one place to the next. Why he settled here, in the middle of nowhere, I’ll never know, but there you go. Every thing has a place, and every place a thing. He built this place, and put his wife here in it to raise their son. Maybe he thought she’d give the boy a good upbringing here, away from the corruption and sin of the cities.”

  Mrs. Tanser motioned the girl to follow her down the hall to the dark rimmed doorway of a room.

  “That woman spent her time in here, so the stories go, day after day after day while her Garfield rode the rails making his fortune. He stayed out on those rails more and more, hoping maybe to gain his son an inheritance.”

  The older woman stepped with a click and an echoey clack into the room. The walls were papered in a pattern of whirling pinks and blossomed yellows. But the garish sidelights did little to detract from the majesty of the enormous mahogany bed that dominated the center. Its rich posts rose from lion claw paws on the floor to taper in spears to within inches of the faded ceiling. A translucent gauze of yellowed lace hung between the posts and darkened the space with ghostly light.

  “The more her husband stayed lost on the trains, the more his wife stayed lost here, in this very bed,” Mrs. Tanser said. “Go ahead, sit on it yourself and see why!”

  Tricia stepped into the room but stopped at the edge of the mattress, which was nearly as tall as her.

  “Use the step,” Mrs. Tanser said, pointing to the dark wooden box near the girl’s feet. “In those days, you wanted to sleep as high above the ground as you could. Rats, you know.”

  Tricia hopped up on the step with the mention of rodents, and rolled her body onto the heavy down mattress, smiling at the caress of the silken blue comforter that covered it.

  “They called it the White House, and not because it was in Washington, D.C.,” Mrs. Tanser said. “But it was anything but white inside. Mrs. White kept all of the drapes pulled shut, and spent more and more time here, in this bed. They say she was trying to make it feel like nighttime inside, so her son would sleep. Had the colic, and cried all day long. But pulling the drapes did nothing to calm the boy, and after awhile, Mrs. White went a little bit mad, I think. Day after day, night after night, her baby cried, cried, cried and she paced this floor with him, pounding his tiny back and begging him to burp and then screaming at him to burp.”

  Mrs. Tanser shook her head.

  “That boy never saw that nest egg his father was out putting away. When Mr. White came back from one of his long trips down the rails, he found the house dark, and all the shutters pulled. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, you being a young girl and all-but you’ve probably seen worse on TV. Oh the things they show on that tube.” Mrs. Tanser shook her head brows creased in dreadful sadness.

  “When Mr. White came home that day, he walked up those same stairs you and I just did, and knew right away something was wrong. I won’t say more than this, but the smell was in the air, and he was no fool. He rushed to the bedroom and threw open this door and…”

  Tricia’s eyes widened as the story unfolded.

  “…when the light streamed into the pitch-black room, he found his wife and his son, here in the shadows. Only they were in no condition to leave. The poor boy was hung from his tiny neck right off of that pole there,” Mrs. Tanser pointed at the right pole at the foot of the bed. “Mrs. White had tried to quiet him by wrapping a sheet around his head-but when he didn’t quiet, she’d finally snapped. She hung him by his tiny neck like a Christmas ornament at the foot of the bed, and when he finally quieted, she laid down on the pillow and went to sleep. When she woke, and realized what she’d done, she took her own life, using her husband’s straight razor.

  “If I took the sheets off this bed you could still see the marks of her blood. Nobody’s ever changed that mattress. She laid down right there, where you are, and cut her self again and again and again until she couldn’t cut or scream anymore.”


  Tricia leapt from the bed as if it had turned to a stove burner.

  Mrs. Tanser grinned, wrinkles catching at the corner of her eyes like broken glass.

  “She used that blade so much, they say she had to have a closed casket. Can’t imagine cutting your own face with a razorblade myself, but, I can’t imagine hanging your own baby, neither!

  “There’s a reason they started calling this place the House of Bones. But that came later. Mr. White kept this place for almost 30 years after his wife killed their son, and herself here. And he never remarried. In fact, he may have been dead for a year or more before the town grew the wiser. He was gone for long periods at a time on the railroad, and it was only when the spring winds brought a tree down on the west wing of the house that someone from the town realized it had been months and months since Mr. White had been seen. When they looked into it, they found out that he hadn’t been out on a rail for more than a year, and that’s when someone thought to look in the basement.”

  Mrs. Tanser looked at the trembling girl and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, I’m scaring you. My home does not have a cheery history, I must admit. But it’s fascinating too, don’t you think?”

  The old woman shook her head. “C’mon downstairs, and I’ll buy some of those Girl Scout cookies. A lady needs her vices, huh?”

  The doorbell rang. But there was no silhouette showing through the stained purple glass in the front door of White House.

  Mrs. Tanser answered the ring, nevertheless, and smiled as she saw the pale features of the girl on the landing, shivering and yet waiting outside. So small, she couldn't even send her shadow through the glass.

  “Come in, child,” she insisted. “You’ll catch your death of cold. I don’t believe your mother lets you go out like that in the fall chill.”

  Tricia entered the house again, driven by a feeling she could not have explained. The house scared her to death. Mrs. Tanser was strange. But interesting. A welcome diversion after a boring day at school.

  “I didn’t think you’d come back after the story of Mr. and Mrs. White,” the teacher exclaimed. “Sometimes I feel like I am just the steward for this house. I have to give its history, no matter how twisted it may be.”