Phantom (11 page)

Two ... Eight ... Twelve ... He would stop
at twenty ... Twenty ... Well, say twenty-five and that's it. ...
Twenty-five. Nothing. It was hard to imagine a corridor this wide
or wider. But if it wasn't a corridor, what kind of room was it?
Ned stood still in the dark, trying to figure out what to do.
Returning to the wall as planned seemed pretty tame, and once he
got back his only choices would be to resume the blind walk or
retreat to the outside. However, Ned knew that it made even less
sense to wander around aimlessly in a space that might be so big he
could end up going in circles for hours. Stick to the plan, he
argued. Count back twenty-five steps.

But even before Ned turned,
he froze. He saw no light or heard even the faintest sound, but
something stopped him. He couldn't explain it to himself because it
made no sense, but a new, powerful wave of terror surged through
him, and his body refused to turn around. Without understanding
how, Ned knew beyond any doubt that if he went back now, even only
a few paces, he would be in great danger. Sweat trickled down his
face—crazy, in a cold place like this. Ned scarcely breathed, but
his mind worked quickly to come to terms with this new situation.
The rule here would have to be much the same as it was in other
circumstances. If he turned around now,
something
would be there, right behind
him, waiting. Ned's body was moving as he completed the thought.
The only safety lay in continuing to move ahead. He should have
known: Once you leave the covers, or in this case the wall, there
is no way back. Keep moving and
it
will stay behind you. Please let that be so, Ned
prayed.

He had no idea where he was going. He tried
to steer himself along an imaginary diagonal that continued to the
left and toward the center of the building, but he couldn't be sure
he was actually achieving that. And even if he was holding such a
course, there was no guarantee it would lead anywhere.

This time when Ned came to a door he opened
it without hesitation, mildly startled, but pleased that he hadn't
run into yet another wall. He was rewarded by the barest hint of
gray light in the distance. It might only be an illusion, but it
was enough. There was no question of turning around; the force of
fear was still as real as a hand on his back. Ned pulled the door
shut behind him, although he knew it was a meaningless gesture.
What frightened him couldn't be stopped by doors or walls.

He continued forward in the same awkward but
steady sliding motion that had to be wearing down the soles of his
sneakers. But in spite of his careful progress, Ned tripped and
sprawled on the stone floor. His hands groped wildly in the
darkness, and every nerve in his body screamed that he was
vulnerable. Ned jumped to his feet, frantic to maintain his sense
of direction. Some piece of equipment or heavy machinery had caused
his fall, but he sighted the gray patch ahead and started for it.
Almost at once he stumbled again, flopping into what felt like a
tub or a vat of some sort. Ned cried out in anger. He got back onto
the floor and tried to move a little to the side, but a wall
pressed him back. Now he really was in a corridor, he realized, one
that was narrow and evidently full of old junk. The feeling of a
dreadful presence right behind him grew more' acute, but it also
spurred Ned on. He bumped into unidentifiable bulky objects at
almost every step, and he climbed over them or crawled around them
as fast as he could. The scrapes and bruises he suffered were
annoying, but there was no time to dwell on them. If I get out of
here I'll come back with a light and a big hammer, Ned promised
himself, and I'll smash all of this stuff to pieces. But then he
knew he would do no such thing. The truth is, if I get out of here
I'll never, ever come back to this place.

An iron rod protruding from
some unseen apparatus caught Ned in the stomach, doubling him over
in pain. He rolled off it and hit the floor again. This time he
stayed there, gasping, and then sobbing to himself. He didn't want
to move anymore, come what may. If there really were phantoms, let
them come and take him, once and for all. Get it over with. But
nothing happened. Ned lay in darkness and silence, the only sound
that of his own breathing. He felt vaguely embarrassed as if he
were too small and insignificant for
them
to bother with. Ned forced
himself up and went on toward the gray light. In his mind he could
almost picture the presence at his back, a shadowy figure that
sneered down on him, saying,
Go, little
boy, you are safe now but you can be taken anytime, anywhere
....

The light, what little there was of it, came
from a stairway. The door at the top stood open. Now that Ned had
finally reached this point he felt no joy or relief, just an odd
sense of deflation. He walked up the stairs and came out in a large
round room. Ned guessed it had once been the spa's lobby and
reception area. Now it was empty, the floor strewn with chunks of
plaster, broken glass, beer cans, Twinkies wrappers and other
rubbish. Paint hung in long, tattered strips from the walls. A
massive staircase circled up four flights around the open well to
the uppermost floor, which was topped by the framework of a huge
skylight. Most of the glass was broken, by storms and vandals and
sheer neglect, Ned thought, but he could see how impressive the
place must have been at one time. It still was, in a way. He also
noticed that his sense of time was apparently way off the mark.
Wandering through the cellar had seemed to take hours and he
thought it would have to be after nine o'clock by now, but the sky
was still too bright. Could it be only six-thirty or seven? Maybe
this was a place where time slowed down .... An abandoned paper
wasp's nest lay on the floor at Ned's feet, and he kicked it away
idly. He had won. He had explored the spa from its far outer wall
to this front room. He had made it, in spite of all the obstacles
and difficulties. So why did he feel confused and even defeated
now?

The front door was boarded up, but several
of the lower planks had been kicked loose and Ned saw that he would
have no trouble crawling out. Like a puppy. Before he got to the
door, however, he came to an abrupt stop. Words were scrawled in
the thick dust and grime on the floor. The letters seemed to writhe
like hideous snakes, but they held their shape.

YOU WILL BE

MINE AGAIN

All the blood in Ned's body rushed to his
heart, which thundered and felt like it was about to explode.
Trembling but deliberate, Ned rubbed out the words, one by one,
with the toe of his sneaker. Then he was running as if his life
depended on it, running down the long sloping drive away from the
spa, through bushes and across the disused railroad bed, running
from he knew not what, slowing a little only when he found himself
at last on familiar streets with regular houses.

For an hour and a half the fear and anxiety
had been building up in her. Linda's body felt like a bunch of
steel rods. Her imagination had staged an anthology of short plays,
each one a mother's nightmare. Then, in the single good moment of
the entire day, it all dissolved as she caught sight of Ned coming
across the backyard. He had never been late like this, never. Linda
fought back the tears. She was so glad to see him alive and home!
Of course, as soon as he opened the door and came into the kitchen,
the joy she was experiencing transformed itself into crystalline
anger.

Ned's sneakers were caked with mud. His
clothes were muddy and his back was coated with the stuff. It was
in his hair and on his face, and his hands were black. Linda
noticed a long scratch on his right forearm; no doubt other
injuries awaited discovery beneath the grime.

"Hi, Mom."

For a nine-year-old Ned was remarkably
nonchalant. He walked casually across the room to the cabinet by
the sink and took out the container of Borax.

"Where were you?" Linda screamed before Ned
could start to wash his hands. "Look at you! You're covered with
mud, you've got a cut on your arm and you're over an hour late!
Where were you? What were you doing?"

Ned was paralyzed, all confidence blown away
by his mother's outburst. He started to say something, but his
throat had dried up so fast the words came out strangled beyond
recognition. He gulped and tried again.

"I was just hiking in the woods," he said
feebly.

"Hiking in the woods?" Linda raged. She
wanted to shriek out every terrible thought and fear she had
suffered while waiting, praying for Ned to come home. She wanted
him to know how helpless and frightened a person could be. But then
the tears were in her eyes and on her cheeks, and there was nothing
she could do about them.

Ned hesitated briefly, then went to her.
Linda felt his thin arms around her and she hugged him tightly,
still crying. Then she was aware of Michael, who had appeared at
the edge of her blurred vision. She blinked several times rapidly,
wiped the tears away and sniffed.

"How could you, Ned?"

"Well ... I don't have a watch," he said
reasonably.

"Yes, but you know when it's time to come
home," Linda went on. "You know how ... "

Ned nodded silently, prepared now to let his
mother have her say. He wouldn't argue. Why bother? He knew he had
no defense. A glance at his father told him there would be another
lecture from him after his mother finished. A double bill.
Followed, no doubt, by some form of punishment.

But Ned didn't mind. In fact, he was glad to
be there, glad to take whatever was coming to him. He was a lucky
fellow. Only a little while ago, and not very far away, he had
escaped something far worse. Five words still burned in his mind,
so he wouldn't forget.

* * *

8. Polidori
Street

Michael deliberately chose what seemed to be
the seediest bar along the waterfront. Polidori Street was probably
the oldest street in Lynnhaven, and it looked it. This is where
you'll find the old tars and soak up local color, Michael thought,
poking fun at his own intentions. The potential foolishness of the
evening's quest did not escape him, but neither did it deter him.
I'm not a gawking tourist, he reasoned, I live here too now.
Besides, he knew he wouldn't find anything interesting in the
Washington Irving Inn or the Patrick Henry Rooms or the Edison
Restaurant Bar or any of the other Musk and fake leather lounges
along the highway outside of town. They were clones, from Anywhere,
U.S.A.

The bar Michael went into was so unassuming
it didn't even have a name. Only a Budweiser neon light in the
window marked the place. The first thing Michael noticed when he
stepped inside was that the floor tilted away from the door, giving
him the distinct sensation of literally going downhill as he went
to take a seat at the bar. Appropriate, he thought, I like it. But
the bar was almost deserted. Two customers sat together at a shaky
table in one comer. They stared silently at their drinks, as lively
as a pair of potted plants. Maybe they're joint owners of an
uninsured boat that has just sunk, Michael mused. The only other
customer was a young man with curly hair. He wore a sweatshirt with
cut-off sleeves and he was sitting on a stool at the end of the
bar. The bartender listened impassively as the young man explained
something in great detail, underlining every word with elaborate
hand gesture:;. Michael couldn't catch What was being said, so he
occupied himself with filling a pipe (he had taken care to bring
the most battered briar in his collection). The mirror behind the
bar was festooned with postcards, paper money from foreign
countries and pasteboard plaques with catchy mottos like A HARD MAN
IS GOOD TO FIND! and ONLY SAILORS GET BLOWN OFFSHORE!

The bartender saw Michael and came over to
serve him.

He was a heavyset man who might have been
thirty-five or fifty or any age in between. He had the lumpy,
nicked features of someone who has taken at least as many punches
as he has thrown. His crew-cut hair was a neutral lichen on a skull
that presented new horizons in phrenology.

"Bottle of Bud," Michael requested.

He got four dollars and fifteen cents change
from his five. The bartender went back to the curly-haired youth
who now addressed him as Ted. Ted, the bartender, took in another
minute or so of Curl's ongoing saga before shrugging and walking
away. He stuck a toothpick in his mouth and took a closer look at
Michael.

"You from here in town?" Ted asked, making
it sound like an accusation.

"Yeah, moved in not too long ago."

"That right?" Ted had heard stranger things.
He chewed his. toothpick.

"Quiet night," Michael observed.

Ted grunted ambiguously. At that moment
three more young men came into the bar and joined Curly. They
called for 7 & 7, a mix of Seagram's rye and 7-Up that Michael
loathed. Ted started pouring and Michael's eye fell on a card that
said OUT TO A DRINK OF LUNCH! He noticed that all of the messages
ended with an exclamation point.

One of the men at the bar proceeded to tell
a story in a loud voice. It was about a sailor who, after months at
sea, prowled the bars and finally found a prostitute he liked. They
went back to her place, he paid her five dollars and they got down
to it. But the sailor had had too many drinks and he wasn't making
progress~~. Still, he labored on, and at one point asked the bored
girl how he was doing. "About three knots, sailor," she said. The
sailor wondered if she was making fun of him, so he asked her what
she meant by that. Her answer: "It's not hard, it's not in, and
you're not getting your five dollars back." The four young men
rocked on their feet with laughter. Michael smiled. Ted, who had
heard that joke many times before, studied the serial numbers on a
handful of dollar bills.