Fortnight of Fear by Graham Masterton

him.”
    â€œNo,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s still alive … we could bring him back to life again.”
    â€œJill –” I began, moving toward her; but she screamed, “Don’t touch me! You’ve killed him! Don’t touch me!”
    I tried to snatch at her wrist, but she pulled herself away, and ran for the door.
    â€œJill! Jill, listen!”
    She was out in the corridor before I could stop her, and running toward the elevator. The elevator doors opened and the Italian-looking man stepped out, looking surprised. Jill pushed her way into the elevator and hammered wildly at the buttons.
    â€œNo!” she screamed. “No!”
    I went after her, but the Italian-looking man deliberately blocked my way.
    â€œThat’s my wife!” I yelled at him. “Get out of my goddamned way!”
    â€œCome on, friend, give her some breathing-space,” the man told me, and pushed me in the chest with the flat of his hand. Desperately, I saw the elevator doors close and Jill disappear.
    â€œFor God’s sake,” I snarled at the man. “You don’t know what you’ve done!”
    I shoved my way past him and hurtled down the stairs, three stairs at a time, until I reached the lobby. The doorman said, “Hey, man, what’s going on?” and caught at my arm.
    He delayed me for only a second; but it was a second too long. The swing doors were just closing and Jill was already halfway across the sidewalk, running into Central Park South.
    â€œJill!” I shouted at her. She couldn’t possibly have heard me. She didn’t even hear the cab that hit her as she crossed the road, and sent her hurtling over its roof, her arms spread wide as if she were trying to fly. I pushed open the swing doors and I heard her fall. I heard screams and traffic and the screeching of brakes. Then I didn’t hear anything, either.
    It was a strange and grisly task, removing Robbie’s bodyfrom Willey’s apartment. But there was no blood, no evidence of murder, and nobody would report him missing. I buried him deep in the woods beyond White Plains, in a place where we used to play when we were boys.
    We buried Jill a week later, on a warm sunny day when the whole world seemed to be coming to life. Her mother wouldn’t stop sobbing. Her father wouldn’t speak to me. The police report had exonerated me from any possible blame, but grief knows no logic.
    I took two weeks away from work after the funeral and went to stay at a friend’s house in the Hamptons, and got drunk most of the time. I was still in shock; and I didn’t know how long it was going to take me to get over it.
    Down on the seashore, with the gulls circling all around me, I suppose I found some kind of unsteady peace of mind. I returned to the city on a dark threatening Thursday afternoon. I felt exhausted and hung-over, and I planned to spend the weekend quietly relaxing before returning to work on Monday. Maybe I would go to the zoo. Jill had always liked going to the zoo, more to look at the people than the animals.
    I unlocked the door of my apartment and tossed my bag into the hallway. Then I went through to the kitchen and took a bottle of cold Chablis out of the icebox. Hair of the dog, I thought to myself. I switched on the television just in time to see the end credits of
As The World Turns
. I poured myself some wine; and then, whistling, went through to the bedroom.
    I said, “Oh Christ,” and dropped my full glass of wine on to my foot.
    She was lying on top of the comforter naked, not smiling, but her thighs provocatively apart. Her skin had a grayish-blue sheen, as if it would be greasy to touch, but it wasn’t decayed. Her hair was brushed and her lips were painted red and there was purple eye-shadow over her eyes.
    â€œJill?” I breathed. I felt for one implosive instant that I was going mad.
    â€œI used the spare key from the crack in