Shivers (25 page)

Eric had to smile at Hammond’s amusing histrionics. “If you’re expecting me to willingly go through what I did on Wednesday night, the answer is no.”

“We are scientists. We must take risks.”

“Easy for you to say. A few minutes ago you said that you didn’t want to get to the bottom of this if it was at my expense, correct?”

“But I’m not sure it would be. A little discomfort, a little fear perhaps. But what more? What really happened to you that night? Nothing! Besides, I’d be here to protect you, to keep you from harming yourself, to prevent that—loneliness—from closing in. That’s the important thing.”

Eric wiped his lips with a napkin and cleared his throat. “After what I told you about what I went through, why would you think that whoever or whatever you’re talking about would be benevolent or not capable of affecting
both
of us?”

“But I’m not a sensitive. Just a researcher. How could I be affected?”

“Why not? You’re not immune to a psychic suggestion or attack. If anything, you might be more defenseless than I. Maybe you can’t communicate like I can, but you are still susceptible. You can still become a
victim.”

Hammond waved his arm in disdain. “Eric, you’ve been reading too many comic books.”

“Comic books, nothing! Are you telling me that I don’t know my own field?”

“Of course not. Now don’t be angry.”

“How could I be angry at anyone who makes chicken taste this good?”

“That’s the spirit. Would you care for some wine?”

“Yes, thank you.” Hammond poured a glass for Eric, then for himself. Neither of them were sippers.

“So, are you seriously suggesting that I try to make contact somehow with the force I tapped into on Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not as easy as all that, you know.”

“Perhaps not. But maybe you’ve been guarding against it all this time without even being aware of it. Let your guard down, Eric . . . relax . . . and it will come to
you.”

Eric used his napkin to sop up some droplets of spilled wine. “Hammond, why don’t you explain to me exactly what this ‘force’ you keep talking about is supposed to
be?”

“I only wish I could. I’m not sure.”

“Well if I
had
to pick a name for it, I’d have to say that what affected me on Wednesday night was definitely one of your
evil
forces.”

Hammond seemed excited by the prospect. “But can you be sure?”

“Hammond, I already told you how it made me feel. What happened to me was
not good,
let me tell you.”

“Maybe you misunderstood it, or simply had a negative reaction. I—I—” He sputtered, trying to find the right words. “Maybe you were
too
susceptible, Eric. Just because the messages, the images, frightened you doesn’t mean that the one who transmitted those images was evil. Can’t you see that?”

Eric cocked his head and shrugged. “Maybe.”

Hammond shifted in his seat and coughed. “Eric, what do
you
think was responsible for the experience you had?”

Eric could only shake his head. “I think it was someone . . . someone powerful. Not a demon. Not a devil. Certainly not God. But someone . . .” His fingertips pressed down on his lips. “I
did
feel . . . I sensed . . . the
human
presence somewhere. Or I should say, the human
factor.
It was there. Maybe what we’re dealing with here isn’t human itself, but it . . .
consorts
with us, works with us. Perhaps we work for it. The question is, Hammond, do we do so of or own free will?”

He’d lost Hammond. And when Hammond lost the drift he lost interest. “Whatever you say, Eric.”

Eric smiled. “Want a cup of coffee, Ham?”

“Yes. And bring me one of those glazed donuts, will you?”

“Of course.”

When Eric came back from the kitchen, Hammond was yawning, hand over mouth, eyes red and blurry. “Good thing I put the coffee on,” Eric said. “You’re about to fall asleep on me.”

“Yes. I don’t know what came over me. I suddenly feel so tired. I’ll probably go to bed early.”

“You didn’t have your nap before dinner. That’s why you’re so tired.”

“Possibly. I don’t really need those naps. I’m not an infant. But they enable me to stay up later should I need to. I like to sit up late reading.”

They had the coffee and dessert. Hammond was much too tired to engage in conversation, so they ate in silence. Hammond hadn’t even finished his donut when he muttered something about being exhausted and went to the living room to lie down on the couch. Eric didn’t protest, but this meant that he wouldn’t be able to look at television. Then again . . . perhaps if he kept it low? Of course, now he was free to go out, but not having made any plans he decided against it.

He finished his coffee, collected the dishes and silverware, and placed them in the sink. Hammond would probably wash them in the morning. He threw the empty containers and wrappers in the garbage pail, washed his hands off, and looked through the newspaper for the TV section. He chose an old film, turned to the correct channel, and sat down in the easy chair to watch. Undisturbed on the sofa, Hammond was as still as a log, snoring like a saw. He must have fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the cushion. Eric had to raise the volume so as to hear over the noise of the air rushing through his “roommate’s” nostrils.

At nine o’clock, Eric got up, shut off the TV, and went into the bathroom.

As he was washing his hands afterwards, it suddenly hit him:

Something was scanning his mind.

He was positive of it. Something was reaching out and touching his brain. And it was
because
of Eric’s advanced psychic power, he was sure of that too. Otherwise, Eric would hardly have attracted the thing’s attention.

Eric braced himself. This was it! The second attack! Where, oh where, was Hammond when he needed him?
Wake up, Gratis!
Well, at least he was prepared this time. No one would catch him off guard.

As the attack began, as Eric successfully warded it off, repelled it, negated it, Eric realized it was more of a
defensive
maneuver than an offensive one.

He’d been getting too close. His visions. His dreams. HGC. The door.
Eric had seen too much.

The thing was attacking for what it thought was its own protection!

But Eric was too much for it.
This
time. Eric beat it back, back, back to where it belonged. He wanted to shift to his
own
offensive maneuver, to probe and scan, to find out more about his opponent, but he dared not. It would be too easy to leave himself wide open to a third, devastating assault. He knew how easily your strength could be turned against you in psychic warfare, at least in theory. How often did he
have
psychic battles? So few consciousnesses were as strong as his own.

But
this
consciousness was stronger. Incredibly so. Eric had only managed to “defeat” it — for lack of a better word — because he’d been prepared and his opponent had
not
been. He sensed his opponent had never come into contact with a human mind
quite
so paranormally powerful before.

Eric’s entire body was dripping with sweat. He looked in the mirror and saw a ghost staring back at him. He’d better go wake up Hammond and tell him what had happened.

When he returned to the living room, it struck him that .something had been moved or changed, although at first he couldn’t figure out what it was. Slowly he looked around the room.

Hammond! That was it. Hammond wasn’t there. Boy, that experience in the bathroom had taken a lot out of him.

The sofa was empty. “Hammond? Where have you gone?”

There was no answer.

He went into the kitchen and found Hammond there. He was standing next to the range, staring straight ahead, his eyes going right through Eric’s body. He had the strangest look on his face, like a somnambulist. Could it be that he was sleepwalking?

“Hammond?” Eric said, stepping closer.

The man didn’t move.

“Hammond?” Eric was suddenly struck by a painful headache. It was as if all his nerve endings had been set on fire. He gritted his teeth, placed his hand on his brow, and began to tremble. Perspiration seeped out of his skin, coating his temples.

Hammond had also been affected. The big man was revolving his head, stretching his neck toward the ceiling, then pushing his head down onto his chest. All the while he moaned and made animal-like noises. All Eric could see were the whites of Hammond’s eyes. Could this be a joke? he wondered. Had the circumstances not been so out of the ordinary, it would have seemed a comical exhibition.

Eric tried to block out the pain. He had just about succeeded when Hammond lunged at him.

The man’s face was contorted with hatred; bubbly foam spilled out from between his lips. Within seconds he had his arms around Eric’s throat, his hands shaking with frightening strength as they pushed down on Eric’s windpipe. Eric’s vision began to darken. He pulled at Hammond’s shoulders and kicked him, hoping the blows would startle the man and make him let go. Finally Eric was able to move his hands to the front of Hammond’s chest. Pushing with all his might, he shoved the man away from him.

Hammond tottered on his feet for a second, then fell to the floor.

Eric used this opportunity to look around for a weapon, just in case he’d need one. Judging from the look on Hammond’s face, he probably would. Eric didn’t know what had come over his friend, and certainly didn’t want to hurt him, but his sense of self-preservation was too strong for him to simply stand there and take a beating. In all probability, a fatal one.

He grabbed one of the kitchen chairs. Holding it in front of him, he hoped he’d be able to ward off any more attacks without doing serious harm to Hammond. He was sure his friend wasn’t responsible for his actions. He would have to be very, very careful.

Hammond had risen to his feet. Apparently he was partially able to reason—he went to the drawer where the cutlery was held and pulled out a very large butcher knife. Still snarling, his face a study in fury, Hammond advanced once again on Eric.

They moved backward into the living room. Perhaps if lie could maneuver him into the bathroom, Eric thought, lock him in, Hammond might eventually calm down. But even then, how could he be sure there wouldn’t be a reoccurrence of this madness?

A stab of utter helplessness shot through Eric. Even if he could disable Hammond, what hope would they have against a foe who could set one friend against another? Like
this?

“Hammond! It’s me! Eric! You’ve got to stop this!”

“Got to—got to—
kill
you! It’s
making
me—”

“No! You’re not going to kill anybody,” Eric shouted, not sure if he was addressing Gratis or their unseen opponent. What on
earth
were they dealing with here? Eric thrust out with the chair, aiming for Hammond’s knife hand. It didn’t work. Hammond grabbed one leg of the chair with his free hand and tried to pry it from Eric’s grip. Eric was terribly afraid that Ham would succeed. Normally, Hammond was stronger than he was—and now, under this demonic influence, who could tell how
much
stronger he might be?

Eric stepped back very quickly, pulling the chair leg out of Hammond’s hand. Hammond’s
other
hand tightened on his knife. He advanced, fearlessly, twisting his body sideways so that his back could take the brunt of Eric’s blows should he start hitting him with the chair. Whoever was controlling him was doing an excellent job.

Eric backed up too hastily. He bumped into the coffeetable—the chair started falling out of his hands.

Hammond rushed forward, plunging the knife directly at Eric’s heart.

Eric pulled the chair back up again just in lime. The knife hit
it
instead of him, becoming imbedded in the red vinyl seat cover and the wood underneath. Eric only had time for a quick glimpse. The blade was buried up to the hilt—an incredibly powerful blow! If that had punctured his
chest. . .

Eric and Hammond wrestled for possession of the chair. Decidedly the stronger of the two, Hammond started jamming it into Eric’s body. Eric decided not to rely on the protection of the chair anymore, as it had been too easily turned against him. He pushed aside the coffeetable with one arm, held the chair off with another— then sidestepped the table, getting out of Hammond’s way.

Enraged, Hammond lifted the chair over his head. He let out with a cry that seemed as anguished as it was angry, and threw the chair at Eric. It went flying past him, crashing into the curtains and the window behind them. Amid a shattering collection of razor-sharp glass shards, the chair hurtled down to the pavement below.

Wearing the tormented look of an infected and dying animal, screeching at the top of his lungs, Hammond rushed past Eric toward the wall and the window. Tears of resignation and determination dripping down his face, Hammond followed the path of the chair and plummeted downward to an abrupt and hideous death.

For the second time in three days Steven stood in the hallway outside Andrea Martin’s apartment. This time he had received an invitation.

Andrea let him in and gave him a noncommittal peck. He didn’t know if it was out of pity that she’d kissed him, but he’d have to be satisfied. She put his coat away and made him a drink.

“Thought you might need somebody to talk to,” she said. “Sorry I was so abrupt on the phone this afternoon. I was calling from work, and it was
really
a hectic day.”

“That’s okay. I was just glad to hear from you.”

They sat together on the couch while Steven sipped his bourbon. She drank nothing. Not a good sign. He had wanted to “have it all out” with her, but surely she knew that
this
was not the time?

“So how is everything? What did Ralph have to say?”

He chattered on for several minutes, updating her on the latest bizarre developments. “Remember old Harry Faulkin? He brought a reporter over to my place this afternoon. They’re going to put Joey’s picture on the news. Yeah, I thought it was great too. But it was awful—vulgar, stupid. They’re trying to make. Joey out as some kind of murdering gigolo. They say that’s the only way he’ll get any attention. So tell me, what can I do?”