The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror (12 page)

But nightfall was still a good hour away, and there was no telling if Mr. Parrish would be here at all.

A stranger. The little boy.

Sitter was so upset he stood, folded his chair, and went through the gap in the hedge and into his house.

He didn’t come out until he heard the siren wailing.

3

Piper Cleary was a man much too small for the skin he carried; it hung from his arms, from his neck, seemed to slip down his face in imitation of a bloodhound. His large teeth were nicotine yellow, and he always seemed five days away from his last decent shave. His hair was a thick and unruly brown unsure when it was supposed to turn white, and forever squashed beneath a tweed deerstalker cap. A sheathed hunting knife was clipped to his belt, and his hiking boots were open at the top and folded down. At last count there were thirteen patches on his jeans.

He saw the boy speed by on the bike going north on the county road, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t his kid, it was Sitter’s job to keep track of people moving about, and besides he had more important things to worry about. Like the demons. Like going back to the Depot and sitting there in the corner with his drink not really a drink but actually ginger ale and thinking about how he was going to take care of all those damned demons getting ready to take over the whole world from the cellar at Winterrest.

He knew they were there.

He knew they were after him.

And he knew that unless he did something about it, they were going to break out pretty soon.

He kicked angrily at a stone and switched from demons to Dumpling, hoping the poor little bitch hadn’t gone wandering too far. She was due any minute now and he would be damned if he was going to lose a litter just because she got it into her stupid little head to take a damned walk.

Besides, the demons might get her.

As he came abreast of the Shade Tree, he considered visiting his daughter-in-law and his son. Maybe they had some ideas where he could look for the dog. He snorted, and crossed the street. Nell-the-Bitch for sure would have an idea—get rid of all the hounds so the house wouldn’t smell like dogshit all the time—that’s what she’d say. Or—get rid of all those horrid scratchy records so we can have some peace, for god’s sake.

But what the hell did she know about Carmel Quinn anyway? Could she remember Arthur Godfrey? Could she remember Frank Parker and that gorgeous little Hawaiian girl singing their hearts out for the whole goddamned country? Hell no. She couldn’t remember how the glorious Miss Quinn would lift that sweet angel’s voice of hers, putting every other singer to shame and tears in a strong man’s eyes. Hell, she wouldn’t remember that at all.

But Piper did.

Piper Cleary was in love with Miss Carmel Quinn, had been for twenty years or more, and if Mr. Parrish didn’t have anything for him to do this weekend, he was going to stack up the records, turn up the volume, and hope that Nell would run screaming out of the house.

If he was lucky, she’d never come back.

He climbed the Depot steps, opened the door, and paused to look back at Parrish’s office. There were no lights, no sign the man was watching. But he was. He always was. He always knew when to come by the house and tell him to load up the rocks and take them . . . away.

Away to get rid of them, though he never remembered where, and he never remembered why.

Like only yesterday. For most of the day he had been behind Winterrest, picking up the rocks and loading the wheelbarrow and carting them across the grass to the wall behind his own house. Eighteen trips at least, dumping the rocks over and loading them into the pickup.

He had a feeling he would be taking them someplace soon, maybe even this weekend.

But he didn’t know.

He never knew until Mr. Parrish told him.

He shivered as a cool breeze touched his shoulders, then lifted his nose to test the air and tugged the deerstalker low over his eyes.

Bad, he thought suddenly; it’s gonna be bad.

The only thing was, he wasn’t sure it was the demons.

4

Keith sat with his back to the wall, hugging his knees, staring at the house. Now that he was here, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t just tell the Gang he’d come because they wouldn’t believe him. Artie sure wouldn’t; he would hardly believe it if he were sitting right next to him.

He didn’t know what to bring back as proof. A blade of grass was silly, and there were no signs around that he could steal.

The only thing he could think of was somehow getting inside the house and taking something out. But it looked locked from here. Even though it was a football field away, it certainly looked locked, and he sure wasn’t going to break a window and really get himself in trouble. Maybe, though, there was something around back. A piece of wood, or something left behind by whoever was in there last. It wasn’t the greatest idea in the world, but it was the only one he had; besides, he’d done all right so far, hadn’t he? He’d gotten over the wall without anyone yelling or chasing him away, and he hadn’t seen a single ghost or monster in the windows, not a single one of Sitter’s dumb witches or Piper’s silly demons.

He winked at himself, shifted into a crouch—a runner at the starting blocks—whispered “onetwothreego!” and sprinted over the lawn.

The house bobbed erratically ahead of him, the panes flaring red, flaring gold, dying a nonreflective black. It seemed awfully far away, and there were an awful lot of rocks in the grass he hadn’t noticed before. One of them almost tripped him; he swerved and gave the rock the finger. As he reached the near corner he gave the house wide berth, swinging out in a half circle until he was in back and hidden from anyone looking in from the road.

There was nothing here.

The windows were the same, the door in the center was probably locked, but other than that there was only the grass that reached back toward the hill, flat at first before lifting in low rises.

And the shed.

He couldn’t believe his luck. The Gang would crap in their pants if they knew.

Not twenty feet from the right-hand back door there was a little shed whose sides were canted slightly inward . . . and its door was open.

All right! he thought triumphantly as he sprinted forward again; alright, Keith! What he’d do then is, he’d run in, grab the first thing he found, and run out again. He’d take the bike, get back, and shove whatever it was right up Artie’s fat hairy nose. All right, Keith, all
right!
Go Mohawks, charge!

The shed was barely taller than he, and the door was open just wide enough for him to pass through without having to turn. He checked the house for prying eyes, checked the grass back to the hill and the trees, and was inside before he could talk himself out of it.

It was empty.

After his blinking eyes adjusted, he could see that there were no windows; it was dark, but enough dusty light slipped in through the doorway to show him that all his excitement had been for exactly nothing.

“Oh . . . nuts,” he said with a mournful shake of his head. “This ain’t fair, it ain’t fair.”

He made another quick examination in case he had missed something small hiding in a corner, then sighed and turned to leave.

And the door slammed shut, screaming on its hinges.

“Hey, cut that out!” he yelled as he reached for the knob. “Hey?” he said when he discovered there was none.

He kicked at the door and yelped when he learned it wasn’t wood at all, but stone. A glance around, a deep breath, and he punched at it, pushed at it, shrieked Artie’s name because it had to be him, who else but the Gang knew he was here.

Artie didn’t answer; neither did Dirk or Ian.

It was cold now, it was dark, and when he thought about digging a tunnel under the door like they did in the movies, he discovered that the shed’s floor was made of solid rock.

“Ian! Dirk! Hey, let me out! C’mon, you guys, this isn’t funny.”

The shed groaned.

He froze, and listened.

The shed groaned. Like something tall and unstable shifting in a high wind, something tall and heavy balanced to fall.

He swallowed and backed to the door, palms spread behind him and his legs braced to lash out at whatever was there, back there in the dark. The door pressed against his back. His left foot slipped in the dust beneath his shoes and he jerked a bit until he was balanced again, then reached out blindly for the door and leaned against it while he caught his breath.

And felt the stone moving.

It
rippled.

It
shifted.

It grew awfully warm.

And he knew it wasn’t true because stone didn’t move because stone wasn’t alive. Maybe, he thought in a fierce whimpering effort to curb his imagination, there’s a back way out. Sure there is. Sure.

He stepped cautiously forward, his hands out to meet the rear wall after shuffling only two paces. He shook his head. That wasn’t right. The shed was bigger than that; he knew it. He’d seen it. It was at least eight feet deep and six feet high. He turned to find the door again, and suddenly it was right
there.

The shed groaned.

The stone
shifted
like the back of a large animal leaving sleep and stretching.

And when he spun around again, his head bumped against the ceiling. He screamed. The shed was shrinking. He screamed.

And heard something new: a thumping—deep, slow, vibrating through the stone, vibrating through his bones, filling his head with pictures of hearts beating, drums beating, hammers beating against skulls.

Thumping, echoing, until it all blended together somewhere deep in his head.

He screamed for his mother to get him away from this terrible place, screamed for his sister, screamed for his dead father as he dropped heavily to the floor, his pants drenched and stinking as his bowels loosened, his hands clutched against his chest while the shed groaned,
shifted,
the thumping growing louder, louder, the awakened animal angry now and stomping through the ground to come up and get him.

And he couldn’t stand it anymore because he was all alone in the dark, and no one knew where he was, and this wasn’t right; it wasn’t a joke, and he knew it wasn’t right. The shed grew warmer. The thumping grew louder. His hand, trembling so hard his wrist began to ache, reached out to see how close the ceiling was now.

He felt it less than four inches away, yanked back his hand and reached out again; and there was no screaming left, only a tiny, soft whimpering. The hand reached out, and passed into the stone. As his legs passed in when the shed collapsed upon itself, and his arms passed in, his side, his hips, and finally his head while his eyes streamed with tears, his eyes widened and stared, his eyes searching the dark for the terror out there.

shifting

groaning

 thumping

Until there was silence, and a crow flew over the house, circled once and landed on a large grey boulder twenty feet from the back door. On the boulder’s west side was a thin line of blood.

5

Sitter stood in his doorway and watched the ambulance fly south down the highway. He hoped it wasn’t anyone he knew. That would be terrible. If it was someone he knew then he would want to go to the hospital to visit them and make them happy, help them get well. But he couldn’t do that, because Mr. Parrish wouldn’t let him.

So he hoped it was a stranger who wasn’t hurt all that bad, and returned inside where he walked through the tiny kitchen into the tiny living room and sat in the recliner in front of the TV he had bought two years ago because it had a big screen and a lot of pretty colors and he wouldn’t miss anything he was looking for.

He pressed the remote control unit he had taped to the chair’s arm, turning on the news channel he got with the cable. He didn’t watch anything else. Only the news. He couldn’t watch anything else because something might happen that he had to know about, something about the witches that lived in Winterrest.

He watched for an hour, and the sun went down.

He watched the sports news, and the Wall Street news, and the news about the president leaving on his vacation. He took note of the weather in Alaska and New Mexico, in California and Maine, took note of the special segment on water safety for boaters in the East.

But there was nothing about the witches.

He was glad.

Another day gone, and still he’d heard nothing about the witches he knew lived on the estate, who did terrible things every time there was a full moon, who kidnapped little children and who murdered adults and who, his mother had told him one night before he slept, cast evil spells over anyone who tried to climb over the walls.

Sitter had never been over the walls of Winterrest.

And he had never told Mr. Parrish about the witches, because Mr. Parrish wouldn’t understand.

But they were there, and they were restless, and maybe they were the cause of the change he was feeling.

6

The scanner on the nightstand crackled, and Ollie sprang out of bed. It was Gil’s voice, alerting the hospital they were coming in with a stabbing victim. Her heart pounded against her chest, her eyes watered, and she didn’t calm down until she heard at the end of the broadcast the single word, “flower,” a signal to her that Bud was all right, that it was someone else they were taking to the emergency room.

She sighed and slumped into a chair, and wondered if she were going nuts. Here she was, at twenty-six living in a no-horse town, sitting in a bedroom full of furniture every stick of which had been made by Bud in his cellar workshop—from the wall-canopy nineteenth-century bed to the Edwardian vanity, to the Spanish oak chair she was sitting in now. A decorator would have had a heart attack just glancing inside, but she loved it. All she had to do was exclaim over a piece she saw in a magazine, and Bud would vanish downstairs whenever he had spare time, reappear weeks later with a duplication just for her.

It almost compensated for the bouts of jealousy, and for the fact that he’d made her promise they would never have children.