The Headsman (3 page)

For Marcy the dance also fell a little short. She was smashing, all right, in her silver pants, but Jeff didn’t ask her to dance, even though he and Pat sat at the same table with Marcy and Buddy.

The subject of Hathaway and the headsman came up when Jeff said he thought it would be a good idea to get dressed up in black and carry a big ax and go over to Billy Swanson’s house in the middle of the night.

“You do that,” Pat said, “and Billy’s father’d be after you with a shotgun.”

Jeff laughed. “The hell he would. If old man Swanson ever saw the headsman he’d have a heart attack.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Marcy said. “A lot of people around here really do believe that story.”

“Oh, come on,” Pat said. “Hathaway was just trying to get everybody stirred up. He was pissed off because we laughed at him and because Billy made him look silly. I think he’s a little nuts anyway.”

“It’s from oxygen starvation,” Buddy said.

They looked at him.

“From driving too fast,” he explained. “He gets that two-wheeler out on the interstate and gets it going so fast he can’t breathe. Cuts off oxygen from his brain.”

The others laughed at the mental picture of Hathaway flying down the highway in his motorized wheelchair, and that inspired Buddy to tell them about Mr. Baxter catching Joe Boggs smoking a joint in the men’s room that afternoon. Buddy did an imitation of Joe sitting on the toilet and arguing that he was only answering nature’s call and it was getting to a pretty pass at Braddock High when you couldn’t even shit in peace. The incident had taken place that afternoon and Joe would probably be suspended.

And speaking of joints, Buddy said softly in Marcy’s ear, let’s go out to the car. They slipped out to where his Chevy was parked in the lot behind the school, and after about the second drag he began working on getting her silver pants off. But even though she was charged up from the excitement of the game and the dance, and the maryjane was making her head buzz, she held him off. That she’d save for later.

And she did. They went back in and danced a couple of times as the amplified foursome shook the walls. Marcy noted that the kids had become a little rowdier, which was to be expected as the night wore on. Some of the more daring girls were dressed in the latest far-out styles, ragged clothes with reflectors stuck on them, wearing their hair in exaggerated brush cuts standing straight up a couple of inches off their heads and with white makeup on their faces, their eyes outlined with mascara. One of them had even dyed the left side of her head bright blue, but as far as Marcy was concerned that was going too far. The girl looked like one of those weirdos from London you saw on MTV.

After one especially strenuous workout on the dance floor Marcy and Buddy sat down at the table to catch their breath and Marcy saw that Pat and Jeff had taken off. It was getting late. She finished her Coke and took Buddy by the hand and they left the dance.

There was a gravel road up alongside Powell’s farm that was about as good a place to park as any, partly because nobody ever used it at night except kids like themselves and partly because you could get a good view of the moon, if there was one. Tonight there was, and a full moon, at that. They smoked another joint and then they got into the back seat and this time Marcy didn’t resist Buddy when he tried to get her pants off; she helped him.

It wasn’t the best place in the world to make love, with the narrow seat and with the armrest pressing against her head, and the night air cold on her naked skin, but it was better than nothing. She and Buddy had been able to use a real bed only a couple of times since they’d started going together—both occasions when her mother and father had gone out for the evening, which they didn’t do often enough to suit Marcy.

Tonight she felt chilled and tired afterward, and even worse than that, she was suddenly uptight about being out here. Sitting in the dark in the back seat of a car on a lonely country road was making her think about Hathaway and his damned spook story. Buddy lit another joint, and when he opened the window to throw out the spent match she thought she heard a noise somewhere. She jumped and then peered out into the darkness. The moonlight was casting odd shadows, and one of them looked as if it could be the figure of a man, crouched over.

Buddy pulled smoke deep into his lungs and blew out a stream. “Hey, what’s with you tonight—you nervous or something?”

She took the joint from him and dragged on it. “Yeah, a little.”

“Well, relax, will you? The night’s young.” His hand dropped to the inside of her thigh and squeezed.

She knew what that meant; in a few more minutes he’d be looking for another one. Most times that would be just fine with her, but tonight she
was
nervous. And uncomfortable about being out here. Again she looked out the window. The wind was blowing the trees around, and the shadows cast by their leafless limbs created strange patterns on the dark road. She pushed his hand away.

Buddy shook his head in disgust. “Aw, come on, Marcy. What is it, anyhow? That shit about the headsman got you shook up?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s all it is, you know. Just a dumb story people use to scare other people. Swanson was right about that.”

“Was he? Then what made you think of it just now?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing, really.”

“Maybe it’s been on your mind, too?”

“Naw. I just thought that could be what’s got you uptight.”

“Uh-huh.” It seemed colder now, and her back was stiff from lying on the narrow seat. She shivered, and asked Buddy to take her home. He grumbled, but finally pulled up his pants, and taking the joint from her in a small show of petulance climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the engine. She got herself together and joined him in the front seat. They sat in silence as he drove.

4

Marcy’s house was the only one she’d ever lived in. It was a large white Victorian on the south side of the village, in an area called Ridgecrest. The place was set back from the road and nestled under two towering oak trees that were probably the same age as the house. When she got home the wind had become stronger, and the moon was partially obscured by scudding clouds. Patches of rotting snow lay on the front lawn.

Buddy kissed her goodnight and said he’d call her tomorrow, and she shivered as she got out of the car and made her way to the house, hoping her parents were both in bed. They almost always were at this time of night, which was a small blessing. Her father was an early riser, one of the first to arrive each morning at the Braddock National Bank. How he managed, considering what he drank each evening, was more than she could understand. But that was his problem.

The interior of the house was in semidarkness, illuminated only by the light in the center hall. Her parents slept in the back bedroom on this floor, and her room was upstairs at the front of the house. Marcy was the only child in the family. Her mother had nearly died when she was born, and the doctor had been forced to deliver her by caesarean. Afterward the doctor had tied her mother’s tubes. Marcy had often wished she had a sister when she was little, but now that she was older she realized if she had it probably would only have added to the stress. God knew there was enough of it around here as it was. She stepped quietly through the house and made her way up the stairs.

Once in her bedroom she shut the door and undressed, and then went into her bathroom, where she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Her pink cotton shorty nightgown was hanging from a hook on the back of the door. She put it on and got into bed and turned on the radio, tuning in WBDK, the local station. She listened to Phil Collins and then Paula Abdul without really hearing them. After a few minutes she switched out the light and a little while after that turned off the radio as well.

Outside the wind was really kicking up now, sharp gusts bending the limbs of the oak trees until the tips scraped against the roof like giant fingernails. On some part of the house a shutter was banging, and in the distance a dog howled. She pushed herself farther down under the covers. Maybe a storm was coming and they’d get more snow. She hoped not.

She had trouble dozing off, which was unusual for her. As hard as she tried to send her mind in other directions, her thoughts kept returning to Hathaway and the assignment he’d given them. What would she do if—

But it wasn’t the assignment, was it? No, it was the mental picture his words had inspired. It was like a vicious little animal, struggling to get inside her head and her emotions and stay there. She kept pushing it back, shoving it away from her, refusing to acknowledge it, until she fell into a troubled sleep.

An hour later she found herself awake again. What had she dreamed? It was something terrible; despite the cold air in the room she was covered in sweat. She brushed her fingers against the skin between her breasts and felt the moisture there. Her head was hot and she couldn’t think clearly.

A noise sounded somewhere below, like the heavy thump made by a man’s footstep. She was instantly alert, her ears straining to catch the slightest sound.

And then she heard it again.

There was no mistaking it now—the sound
was
that of a footstep, and it was on the stairs below her bedroom. Even though she had closed her door, there was no doubt in her mind as to what she had heard. Her hand shot out to the lamp on her bedside table and she turned it on. Instead of reassuring her, the light that bathed the room seemed strange and distorting, as if she were looking though a faintly yellow lens that bent objects out of shape.

The noise sounded again. It was louder now, and she thought she also caught the rasp of air being sucked into a man’s lungs and then exhaled.
Jesus Christ
. Was she still asleep? Was this all part of the same weird dream?

But she
was
awake, as much as she wished she weren’t. What she was hearing was
real
. There were footsteps on those stairs, heavy footsteps made by a heavy man. He was coming up the stairs very slowly, one step at a time.

Could it be her father? No—he never came up here, especially at night; he was too loaded.

Buddy, maybe, playing some dumbass practical joke? He wouldn’t dare. She’d kill him. Or Jeff? He was the one who’d suggested dressing up and—no, that was ridiculous.

So who—or what—was on those goddamn stairs?

She called out: “Daddy—that you?”

No answer.

It made no sense, but she tried anyway: “Buddy? Buddy Harper?”

Still no answer; only the sound of the footsteps reached her ears. She shrank back against the headboard, pulling the covers up around her neck, her heart pounding.

The footsteps stopped. For an instant she tried to convince herself she’d only been imagining this—that it was the result of that fool Hathaway planting an idea so deep in her mind it wouldn’t leave her alone.

But then she heard the sound of breathing again, and realized that the reason the footsteps had stopped was because whoever it was had reached the landing and was standing there, just outside her door. She lay trembling, trying desperately to think of some way to protect herself. There was no lock on the door, but maybe she could barricade it. She could slip out of bed and steal across the floor to her dresser and shove that into place.

Which was foolish. She wasn’t sure she could move the dresser at all; it probably weighed a ton. And even if she could move it the noise would be horrendous and a sure tipoff as to what she was attempting. And how did she know it would keep somebody from forcing the door anyway?

Maybe her chair would work. It was a plain, straight-backed wooden one, and she had seen people on TV jam a chair like that under a doorknob. She got out of bed without even rustling the sheets and tiptoed toward the chair. It stood on the far side of the room, only a foot or two from the door.

Once she got hold of the chair she’d have to be quick, she’told herself. Grab it and stick it into position as fast as possible. And then she’d yell her head off. Her father might not hear her, but maybe her mother would.

A floorboard creaked under her foot. She froze for a moment, biting her lower lip. Then she took another step, praying it wouldn’t create more noise. Only two or three more steps to go.

The door opened.

It didn’t swing wide or bang open, but instead opened noiselessly and very slowly. It opened into the room, and because of the angle the landing was in shadow. She couldn’t see who or what was there.

Her heart was hammering now and she couldn’t breathe.

And her imagination was playing a horrible trick. It was making her think there was a man standing in the darkness looking in at her—a big man dressed all in black.

But it was no trick.

He stepped into the room, and the sight was her worst nightmare come to life. Everything was black, from his head to his feet. The eyeholes in the black hood were cut at an angle, so that his head looked like that of a giant cat. Or a devil. A black tunic covered broad shoulders and a deep chest, and his legs were encased in black tights. On his feet were black boots. And his huge, black-gloved hands grasped the haft of an enormous, double bladed ax.

Marcy opened her mouth to scream, but her vocal cords seemed paralyzed. As hard as she tried, she could make no sound. Her head was whirling; she was having trouble keeping her balance.

The man in black stepped toward her, and she raised her arms to ward him off. The back of a gloved hand smashed into her jaw and she sprawled to the floor. She looked up, cringing in terror, and at last she found her voice. A scream came boiling out of her mouth as he raised the ax.

5

Four miles northwest of the Dickens house, Karen Wilson stirred in her sleep. An icy wind blew through the open window of her bedroom and the covers were ruffled as if by an unseen hand. She turned and burrowed deeper under the blankets, drawn halfway into consciousness as a series of fragmented images appeared in her mind.

It was like seeing photographs in a light show, each strobe-burst illuminating a scene or an object, impressions randomly appearing in brilliant flashes and then just as quickly retreating into darkness. She saw a shadowy figure, and after that a woman’s open mouth, lips drawn back in a rictus induced by terror.