CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

NOW THE PRESSURE OF TIME BEGAN TO ASSERT ITSELF. MORE AND more stricken, glancing fearfully about, Ron continued to wait for Mimi to call. From time to time, he gazed from the window, looking out at the carnival lights illuminating the sky. From far off, he heard the jubilant voices and the sound of merrymaking. Fiddle strings exploded now, hung in the air like a rag doll, as if to say: Well, just because you’re angry doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a dance or two...

...Because the way things are going there ain’t no hope for you.

Why? Why hadn’t he stopped Chandal and Kristy from going to the carnival. It would have been so simple. Yet he had been unable to move. Unable to raise his voice in protest.

And still he remained frozen. Only his eyes moved from time to time in vacant madness.

That was all. Just his eyes.

The noise from the carnival rose higher, surrounded him, there was something happening to him, something happening, and he felt almost too exhausted to deal with it.

The hall clock chimed the half hour. It was very faint, so faint that he had almost missed it. This is crazy, he thought. He was insane to be sitting there waiting for Mimi to call. If he had any sense, he would get Chandal and Kristy out of Brackston. Now.

Then he realized he had made a mistake. Stupid. If it were going to be that easy...

The noise from the carnival was relentless. A terrific sound, and his ears rang with laughter carved from a gray-black space—what’s happening, what—is—happening...

He flung himself away from the bed, clumsily reached for the telephone and dialed the operator. “Yes, yes—I’d like a Los Angeles number,” he said and hurriedly gave the operator Mimi’s number.

“Just a minute, please.”

Ron stood with the receiver pressed hard against his ear. Come on, Mimi. Come on. He glanced nervously around the room. The light from the lamps on either side of the bed fell in odd shapes across the bedspread; as the rays crossed each other, each seemed to be challenging the other.

“Sorry,” the operator said, “all the lines are busy.”

“What?”

“All the lines to Los Angeles are busy.”

“Please, this is urgent. Try again, would you?”

“Just a minute.”

Ron turned suddenly, his attention drawn to the light footsteps in the hallway. “Del?”

There was no answer.

“Chandal, is that you?”

“They’re connecting you now,” said the operator.

“Chandal!”

“Just a minute, they’re ringing the number.”

“Damn it, Chandal!”

“There’s no answer,” said the operator.

“There must be an answer!” Ron snapped. “Keep ringing.”

Every instant seemed an age while he waited. The carnival sounds came now in fierce bursts, and the glittering light in the distance flashed on and off, whirling around in the darkness. At times Ron could not seem to see an arm’s length before him; but at others, as the carnival sounds grew louder, the room seemed to light up, as if the room itself had become part of the carnival atmosphere. A slight breeze came now through the room, fanning the curtains back.

In the midst of this Ron could hear footsteps retreating down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” the operator said, “but your party doesn’t answer.”

Ron paused for a moment, his eyes locked on the door. “Thanks,” he said and lowered the receiver. With one quick lunge, he had reached the door and flung it open. Just as he stepped into the hallway, he heard someone move swiftly below. It was a soft step and upon it came the soft sound of a closing door. The front door.

He turned and charged down the stairs, stopped; at the living room window he saw the pale outline of a face materializing out of the darkness. Ghastly, the face hovered, its blue-white hue dripping with water, its eyes half dead with fear. The face seemed bathed in a blur of green light as if it were at the bottom of the ocean or in perpetual dusk. Startled though Ron was, he was absolutely certain he was staring into the face of Cynthia Harris.

All at once her eyes widened within the dark recesses of skin and bone, her lips cracked open, twisted into a demented grin, as yellow liquid erupted from the corners of her mouth.

She stood full-blown before him, like some ghoul risen from the dead.

Suddenly the doors leading from the terrace started to rattle and shake as if someone were desperately trying to get in. He tried to move, but something seemed to have him in a vise where he absolutely could not move any part of his body. He tried to cry out, but he was powerless to do so. Just when he thought he could not stand it any longer and was suffocating to death—something snapped.

Cynthia’s shadow fell across his face as the whole house shook with destruction. He looked around quickly expecting to see pieces of china shattered, lamps or something, yet nothing was touched, nothing was disturbed, nothing was broken. Only a small red flower lay at his feet as though thrown there by unseen hands.

As he looked back toward the window, he felt the pressure around him releasing itself slowly. The face that had loomed so close, started to back away into the darkness like a lonely, tormented traveler. It moved further away still, until it vanished.

The house fell silent.

Hesitantly, Ron bent and picked up the flower.