blue, the last of the clouds having slipped across the northern horizon, and the air was warmer than it had been at any time since last autumn. Nonetheless, the chill persisted. He rolled down his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs.
When he looked at the headstones again, Eduardo’s imagination was suddenly crowded with unwanted images of Tommy and Margarite, not as they had been in life but as they might be in their coffins: decaying, worm-riddled, eye sockets empty, lips shriveled back from yellow-toothed grins. Trembling uncontrollably, he was gripped by an absolute conviction that the earth in front of the granite markers was going to shift and cave inward, that the corrupted hands of their corpses were going to appear in the crumbling soil, digging fiercely, and then their faces, their eyeless faces, as they pulled themselves out of the ground.
He backed away from the graves a few steps but refused to flee. He was too old to believe in the living dead or in ghosts.
The dead brown grass and spring-thawed earth did not move. After a while he stopped
expecting
it to move.
When he was in full control of himself again, he walked between the low stone columns and out of the graveyard. All the way to the house, he wanted to spin around and look back. He didn’t do it.
He entered the house through the back door and locked it behind him. Ordinarily he never locked doors.
Though it was time for lunch, he had no appetite. Instead, he opened a bottle of Corona.
He was a three-beers-a-day man. That was his usual limit, not a minimum requirement. There were days when he didn’t drink at all. Though not lately. Recently, in spite of his limit, he had been downing more than three a day. Some days, a lot more.
Later that afternoon, sitting in a living-room armchair, trying to read Thomas Wolfe and sipping a third bottle of Corona, he became convinced, against his will, that the experience in the graveyard had been a vivid premonition. A warning. But a warning of what?
As April passed with no recurrence of the phenomenon in the lower woods, Eduardo had become more—not less—tense. Each of the previous events had transpired when the moon was in the same phase, a quarter full. That celestial condition seemed increasingly pertinent as the April moon waxed and waned without another disturbance. The lunar cycle might have nothing whatsoever to do with these peculiar events—yet still be a calendar by which to anticipate them.
Beginning the night of May first, which boasted a sliver of the new moon, he slept fully clothed. The .22 was in a soft leather holster on the nightstand. Beside it was the Discman with headphones, Wormheart album inserted. A loaded Remington twelve-gauge shotgun lay under the bed, within easy reach. The video camera was equipped with fresh batteries and a blank cassette. He was prepared to move fast.
He slept only fitfully, but the night passed without incident.
He didn’t actually expect trouble until the early-morning hours of May fourth.
Of course, the strange spectacle might never be repeated. In fact, he hoped he wouldn’t have to witness it again. In his heart, however, he knew what his mind could not entirely admit: that events of significance had been set in motion, that they were gathering momentum, and that he could no more avoid playing a role in them than a condemned man, in shackles, could avoid the noose or guillotine.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait quite as long as he had expected. Because he’d had little sleep the night before, he went to bed early on May second—and was awakened past midnight, in the first hour of May third, by those ominous and rhythmic pulsations.
The sound was no louder than it had been before, but the wave of pressure that accompanied each beat was half again as powerful as anything he had previously experienced. The house shook all the way into its foundations, the rocking chair in the corner arced back and forth as if a hyperactive ghost was working
When he looked at the headstones again, Eduardo’s imagination was suddenly crowded with unwanted images of Tommy and Margarite, not as they had been in life but as they might be in their coffins: decaying, worm-riddled, eye sockets empty, lips shriveled back from yellow-toothed grins. Trembling uncontrollably, he was gripped by an absolute conviction that the earth in front of the granite markers was going to shift and cave inward, that the corrupted hands of their corpses were going to appear in the crumbling soil, digging fiercely, and then their faces, their eyeless faces, as they pulled themselves out of the ground.
He backed away from the graves a few steps but refused to flee. He was too old to believe in the living dead or in ghosts.
The dead brown grass and spring-thawed earth did not move. After a while he stopped
expecting
it to move.
When he was in full control of himself again, he walked between the low stone columns and out of the graveyard. All the way to the house, he wanted to spin around and look back. He didn’t do it.
He entered the house through the back door and locked it behind him. Ordinarily he never locked doors.
Though it was time for lunch, he had no appetite. Instead, he opened a bottle of Corona.
He was a three-beers-a-day man. That was his usual limit, not a minimum requirement. There were days when he didn’t drink at all. Though not lately. Recently, in spite of his limit, he had been downing more than three a day. Some days, a lot more.
Later that afternoon, sitting in a living-room armchair, trying to read Thomas Wolfe and sipping a third bottle of Corona, he became convinced, against his will, that the experience in the graveyard had been a vivid premonition. A warning. But a warning of what?
As April passed with no recurrence of the phenomenon in the lower woods, Eduardo had become more—not less—tense. Each of the previous events had transpired when the moon was in the same phase, a quarter full. That celestial condition seemed increasingly pertinent as the April moon waxed and waned without another disturbance. The lunar cycle might have nothing whatsoever to do with these peculiar events—yet still be a calendar by which to anticipate them.
Beginning the night of May first, which boasted a sliver of the new moon, he slept fully clothed. The .22 was in a soft leather holster on the nightstand. Beside it was the Discman with headphones, Wormheart album inserted. A loaded Remington twelve-gauge shotgun lay under the bed, within easy reach. The video camera was equipped with fresh batteries and a blank cassette. He was prepared to move fast.
He slept only fitfully, but the night passed without incident.
He didn’t actually expect trouble until the early-morning hours of May fourth.
Of course, the strange spectacle might never be repeated. In fact, he hoped he wouldn’t have to witness it again. In his heart, however, he knew what his mind could not entirely admit: that events of significance had been set in motion, that they were gathering momentum, and that he could no more avoid playing a role in them than a condemned man, in shackles, could avoid the noose or guillotine.
As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait quite as long as he had expected. Because he’d had little sleep the night before, he went to bed early on May second—and was awakened past midnight, in the first hour of May third, by those ominous and rhythmic pulsations.
The sound was no louder than it had been before, but the wave of pressure that accompanied each beat was half again as powerful as anything he had previously experienced. The house shook all the way into its foundations, the rocking chair in the corner arced back and forth as if a hyperactive ghost was working
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