Just that immense dead silence that in its own way told him that there was no one there, no one alive at any rate.
“ Let’s go,” Louis said, pulling her across the threshold with him.
And soon as he crossed and stood inside on the worn shag carpeting, something inside him plummeted very low and he waited for whatever was coming. Because it was coming and it was going to be bad. Real bad…
17
There had been a foul wind blowing through Greenlawn all day and it was only a matter of time before it reached the door of Kathleen Soames, settled there in a ghastly miasma of rot. She had been expecting it.
She had felt it inside herself more than once that afternoon, something boiling, something simmering, something making her think things and want to do others.
Alien things, awful things.
Things she was not capable of.
But it had been there, scratching away in her brain, a darkness and a dankness and an awfulness. A shadow that had fallen over the town was trying to fill her head with shades and unthinkable impulses. Sometimes she was sure it was her imagination and at other times she was sure it was not. For sometimes it was as palpable as cold hands ringing her throat or moldy breath in her face, a hot voice whispering in her ear.
She had told Steve about it twice now, but Steve was not interested.
Steve said it was her nerves. That she was just tired. She needed a good rest. Her nerves and the muggy heat of late August were brewing up a storm in her mind. She’d been working too hard again, trying to keep house and do her gardening and taking care of the kids and waiting hand and foot on Mother Soames upstairs. Christ, that crazy old woman was enough in herself to wear you to the bone. What she needed was a drink and nap. He’d take care of supper. When Ryan got home from his paper route, the two of them would make a nice supper while she slept.
And it was nice, really nice of Steve to offer.
During the whole of that long, listless, and somewhat upsetting day, it was the first thing that had made her smile. Maybe Steve was right. She’d been nervous all day…stomach upset, rolling in waves more often than not; hands shaking; face sweating. She kept screwing up the most simple tasks. Dropping things, knocking things off shelves. She’d tripped on the stairs twice that afternoon when she went up to look in on Mother Soames. She’d cut her fingers with a knife making the old lady’s lunch and bumped her head on the same cupboard door three times. Nothing was right. The town, the neighborhood, the house, and, yes, even Kathleen herself. Off kilter. Askew. Something.
Like a door, she was either open too wide or not wide enough.
And when she tried to sort it out, to make sense of it, all she got was confused. She’d tried to settle in with her soaps that afternoon while Ryan was still in school and Mother Soames was napping, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Couldn’t sit still. The TV was too loud or too soft and the pictures were too bright, too hard on her eyes. She looked, but none of it made sense. The storylines were as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics.
It was a hot day, but not so hot that even in the cool of the living room she should have sweated, felt dizzy, felt the need to vomit, been on her knees before the toilet some four times in one hour. Not that anything came of it: just wracking dry heaves that left her breathless and frightened, her head spinning and her temples pounding, her throat tight as braided rope and feeling as if it was coated in a fine, scratchy fuzz.
Kathleen had even taken Steve’s advice and stretched out in bed.
But all she did was toss and turn. There was no position that was comfortable. Her pillow felt warm and damp like some breathing, dormant thing that was waiting to wake. And the one time she’d almost drifted off, she thought she’d heard a voice from inside that pillow say, “Now, Kathleen. Do it now.” She’d come out of that sitting up, not
“ Let’s go,” Louis said, pulling her across the threshold with him.
And soon as he crossed and stood inside on the worn shag carpeting, something inside him plummeted very low and he waited for whatever was coming. Because it was coming and it was going to be bad. Real bad…
17
There had been a foul wind blowing through Greenlawn all day and it was only a matter of time before it reached the door of Kathleen Soames, settled there in a ghastly miasma of rot. She had been expecting it.
She had felt it inside herself more than once that afternoon, something boiling, something simmering, something making her think things and want to do others.
Alien things, awful things.
Things she was not capable of.
But it had been there, scratching away in her brain, a darkness and a dankness and an awfulness. A shadow that had fallen over the town was trying to fill her head with shades and unthinkable impulses. Sometimes she was sure it was her imagination and at other times she was sure it was not. For sometimes it was as palpable as cold hands ringing her throat or moldy breath in her face, a hot voice whispering in her ear.
She had told Steve about it twice now, but Steve was not interested.
Steve said it was her nerves. That she was just tired. She needed a good rest. Her nerves and the muggy heat of late August were brewing up a storm in her mind. She’d been working too hard again, trying to keep house and do her gardening and taking care of the kids and waiting hand and foot on Mother Soames upstairs. Christ, that crazy old woman was enough in herself to wear you to the bone. What she needed was a drink and nap. He’d take care of supper. When Ryan got home from his paper route, the two of them would make a nice supper while she slept.
And it was nice, really nice of Steve to offer.
During the whole of that long, listless, and somewhat upsetting day, it was the first thing that had made her smile. Maybe Steve was right. She’d been nervous all day…stomach upset, rolling in waves more often than not; hands shaking; face sweating. She kept screwing up the most simple tasks. Dropping things, knocking things off shelves. She’d tripped on the stairs twice that afternoon when she went up to look in on Mother Soames. She’d cut her fingers with a knife making the old lady’s lunch and bumped her head on the same cupboard door three times. Nothing was right. The town, the neighborhood, the house, and, yes, even Kathleen herself. Off kilter. Askew. Something.
Like a door, she was either open too wide or not wide enough.
And when she tried to sort it out, to make sense of it, all she got was confused. She’d tried to settle in with her soaps that afternoon while Ryan was still in school and Mother Soames was napping, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate. Couldn’t sit still. The TV was too loud or too soft and the pictures were too bright, too hard on her eyes. She looked, but none of it made sense. The storylines were as incomprehensible as hieroglyphics.
It was a hot day, but not so hot that even in the cool of the living room she should have sweated, felt dizzy, felt the need to vomit, been on her knees before the toilet some four times in one hour. Not that anything came of it: just wracking dry heaves that left her breathless and frightened, her head spinning and her temples pounding, her throat tight as braided rope and feeling as if it was coated in a fine, scratchy fuzz.
Kathleen had even taken Steve’s advice and stretched out in bed.
But all she did was toss and turn. There was no position that was comfortable. Her pillow felt warm and damp like some breathing, dormant thing that was waiting to wake. And the one time she’d almost drifted off, she thought she’d heard a voice from inside that pillow say, “Now, Kathleen. Do it now.” She’d come out of that sitting up, not
Similar Books
