Weird Tales volume 38 number 03 Canadian (10 page)

Oh, I suppose I knew what was going to happen, my husband being the kind of man he was, brooding; around about wanting to operate that damn shovel, and nights he'd skulk around outside in the woods between the little rented cottage and the construction site. But honest to God, I never knew the real story. Ed didn't last long enough to tell me. Sure, I heard him digging out there one night in the soft earth and it was the next day that Ronsford was just gone. Btrt Vil-ma not the one to stick her nose into other people's business. That steamshovel job brought more money, too, and that was okay my me. You think a girl wanLs to grow old and never have any of the nice things? You're crazy. Let Ed be the big shot and run the steam shovel, 1 thought. I'll take the extra dough, and if he keeps his mouth shirt, I'll keep my mouth shut. So I couldn't be implicated

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in anything as unpleasant as murder, could I?

Five hours across the state and out at Belfast, a dozing little village considerably smaller than Northville. We climbed off the railroad coach and I stood on the platform watching the train puff away into the soft summer evening, leaving behind a plume of lightish brown smoke that dispersed slowly in the heavy air. Simpson had engaged a cab and we and m y luggage distributed ourselves around the interior.

I remember that drive with crystal clearness. The country in this part of the state is flatter, but in spite of it, the land is beautiful. I looked around with greater interest than I had shown in anything for weeks and Simpson seemed pleased with my remarks about the beautiful trees and flowers.

T>YERLY HOME was a scant fifteen-minute ride from the depot, and as we wound up its dirt driveway, the thought came to me that after all life such as the one I had embarked on since that fateful night had its advantages. There were no responsibilities, no decisions to make, no personal crises, just a regular schedule, care, relaxation.

As though to second my unspoken thoughts, when we drew up at the whiteboard main building, we were met by two people, a man and woman, the woman dressed in ordinary clothes and the man having about him no hint of the medical except for the peeping end of a stethoscope in his coat pocket.

Simpson got out first with my luggage, and the woman, who was introduced to me as Miss Meadows, took me by the arm very kindly and led me up onto the porch and inside.

"You must- be tired," she said in a soothing voice.

My room, I found, was at the extreme end of the house on the second floor and over the deep porch that spread three quarters of the way around the wooden building.

I remember that first night at Byerly Home, I'd had supper down in the main dining room, and as far as I could see, it was much like the dining room of any country inn or hotel. To be sure, a woman at one of the tables in the corner had started to cry. Convulsive sobs that were not pretty to hear, but Miss Meadows and another woman had gone over and helped her out of the room. Nobody else seemed to pay much attention.

I remember my dominant thought that night. Here I was, perfectly safe. The others there might be worried about how they could get out. I patted myself on the back for being at a place where nobody, nothing, could get in—nosy police officers, or anything else.

I had several sessions with Dr. Blake. I told him what had happened that night back at Northville, the night Big Mike stampeded after us, killed Ed, and tried to get mc too, and I could sec the same thinly veiled look of incredulity on Blake's face that I had seen on the physician's face back at Northville.

The patients didn't mingle very much, but I took long walks in the surrounding country with Miss Meadows and I had what they called an occupational therapy class where I did some kind of silly weaving.

I remember my third session with Blake. I was trying to tell him about Big Mike, persisting against questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do witti that night The physician was asking ms

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about my previous life, about my childhood, school days, living with Ed, tilings that as far as I could see, had no bearing on anything. I stubbornly insisted on talking about Big Mike. I saw Blake's lip curl almost in scorn and I realized in a flash the contempt most of these people felt toward anyone deranged.

For of course I knew full well that I was not. I think then I felt a bit sorry for the other patients who were really mentally sick. Well—as sorry as I've ever felt for anyone outside of Vilma.

It definitely seemed to make Blake angry to have me continue to talk about the steam-shovel episode. His parting remark to me as he ushered me out of his upstairs office was, "You know, Mrs. Meglund, you have to help us—help you!"

'TTHAT night I did some long and deep A thinking. You're still young, Vilma, I told myself. After all, you are in a nut house now. You don't want to stay here all the rest of your years, do you, Kid? I realized Byerly Home had had a purpose. It had been the right thing for me to do to come here, but from now on my ticket was to cut out the Big Mike talk. Nobody believed it. The biggest joke of all—and I swear this wasn't wishful thinking—I began to wonder, myself.

That experience in the recent past had been so horrible that my mind—under the shock of Ed's death and the Rons-ford business—had kind of thought up a lot of things that, well, maybe weren't so. I'd poked here and there in my mind for the memory of the official explanation of that night as given me in the Northville Hospital by the solicitous doctor when I'd come to. Ed had died in

the fire. Somehow I'd gotten out, and that was that.

I suited my conduct to my plan of action, I said no more about Big Mike. I was myself completely, except for putting on a bit of palaver with the nurses and doctors. I think I was beginning to fool them. I knew I was the day Dr. Blake called me and said:

"Mrs. Meglund, it seems to us that your condition has taken a turn for the better. You had a very great shock, a shock of the sort that can temporarily, shall we say, affect one's mind, but we feel you've weathered the storm rather well. I think the time is coming when you will be able to* go back out into the world.

"Oh, perhaps there will be relapses. You will have fears and anxiety, and I should certainly suggest that you keep in occasional touch with someone who understands your problem, at least for a while. But on the whole your picture looks quite rosy, Mrs. Meglund."

He beamed, obviously taking the full credit himself. As I left his office, turning over in my mind the words I would have Hked to have said to him, telling him what a stupid little man he was, telling him how I'd fooled them all, and now when I chose it, they thought I'd gone from sickness to wellness, I realized I was no longer afraid of anything outside, even of Big Mike.

That much of Blake's explanations probably was true. I'd built up this thing, and of course it was impossible. It was absurd! I sat in my room feeling very satisfied, drumming my fingers against the ledge and looking out. It was very early fall now, and the trees and shrubbery were beginning to lose some of. their lush greenness. I hadn't

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53

wanted to seem eager to Blake. I hadn't wanted to say, "Doctor, when can I get out of this joint and the sooner the better."

It would fit the whole picture better if I continued to let him play the big shot, to let him think he'd guided me along.

Three days later in the morning Blake sent for me.

"Mrs. Meglund," he greeted me, "I feel you can go home anytime now. Have you plans ? Perhaps you'll return to Northville."

T TOLD him, no, I didn't think I'd do A that. There was a little money left from my husband's insurance, I mentioned candidly, and I thought I'd travel a bit.

"Good," he nodded sagely. "When would you like to leave?"

I bit my lip and kept "Today, as soon as possible," from popping out.

"Oh, sometime tomorrow afternoon," I suggested with an airy wave of my hand as though I really didn't care to leave at all.

Vilma's smart don't you think?

"Tomorrow afternoon ? Splendid ?!" echoed Dr. Blake,

He talked to me further then for well over an hour, I'd say, and I struggled to keep any trace of boredom from my expression. He wrung my hand.

"I'll make all the necessary arrange-in en Is."

I left his office, for the last time I knew, and with my head turned away, I could feel the smirk of satisfaction ooze across my face.

As I walked through the corridor toward the wing, I contemplated with what I thought was justifiable glee, the life that lay ahead of me. And not having

Ed holding me back was more advantage than disadvantage. I'd get by and more!

T CLIMBED the one flight to my room. I supposed I'd better start getting some of my things together, but it was nearly lunchtime. I'd wait until afterward. I went to the window, looked out idly—and something hit me in the pit of the stomach. For there, the top of its upper structure almost on a level with my eyes, was Big Mike! I'd know that steam shovel anywhere! The red operator's cab on the left side, the rest of it drab-painted, the big bucket shovel— everything came back to me then.

The memory, the hysterical fear, the knowledge, yes, the definite knowledge that this was not something of dead steel and iron but an inspired, thinking murderous monster!

"Miss Meadows!" I tried to take the edge of screaming out of my voice. "Miss Meadows!"

I heard the nurse's heavy steps on the stairs outside my room. My nails bit into the palm of my hands as I fought for control. Miss Meadows came into the room.

"What's the matter, dear?"

I pointed out the window. "What's that doing out there?" I tried to keep my voice steady.

The nurse looked. "Oh, didn't you know? We're going to excavate to build onto this wing. It's just a steamshovel, my dear.

I knew she was taking in my white face and I put my hands behind my back to hide their trembling. But despite my efforts, fear ran away with me. I sat down suddenly on my bed because of the weakness in my knees. "Mis* Meadows/' I gasped, "I've got

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to get out of here quickly, as soon as possible? Dr. Blake is letting me go. We decided on tomorrow, but I want to get out of here today. I want to leave now! Please, oh, please!"

Miss Meadows had the usual answer, a pat on the shoulder, the same "Now just take it easy, dear. You stay here and I'll talk to Dr. Blake."

I sat there and the minutes ticked away. I didn't want to get up and look again. I didn't want to see Big Mike, ever. I'd thought I never would see him again and here he was, and with him, the fear that choked me at the throat. Finally, I heard two pairs of steps coming up the stairs of the wing. Dr. Blake came in followed by Miss Meadows.

"What's all this about, Mrs. Meg-lund?"

I made a mighty effort.

"I ... I just decided I wanted to leave today, Doctor."

I realized the danger of my position as Miss Meadows murmured, "The steam shovel outside seems to upset her, Doctor."

Blake looked out the window. He managed a hearty laugh.

"Is that true, Mrs. Meglund? Does that metal eyesore out there worry you V He answered his own question. "Of course not. There's an unpleasant association, I dare say, but these are the things you must control."

I gripped the edge of the bed tightly.

"Can't I please leave today, Doctor?"

He frowned a bit impatiently.

"I've made all the arrangements for tomorrow, Mrs. Meglund. You've been with us quite a few weeks, you know. Certainly you can put up with us one more day."

'It's just that I , today I"

, that I have to go

T"*HEY were both looking at me sharp-ly and I lowered my head. I could feel the hysterical tears course down my cheeks now. The doctor crossed to the bed and gripped me firmly by the shoulder;

"Now this is absurd," his voice was stern. "You've got to get hold of yourself. I have just certified you as on the road to recovery. You're not going to make me reverse my prognosis, are you? Please stand up."

I did, and he led me to the window. "Face this thing and understand what it is."

J looked. I looked at the cables and the machinery and the huge tub of a shovel, the cruel teeth that were slack, waiting— and by my side, Dr. Blake's voice droned on—"Don't you see it's all association .,. that unpleasant night . . . the death of your husband . . . shock. . . ."

The monster, Big Mike, down there had a face and the face was looking at me grinning. The shovel was its mouth, the cab a red, baleful eye fixed on my window. I screamed then, whirled and ran for the door. I had to get away. That was all that mattered. I had to! I had to!

The shock of Miss Meadows' heavy body brought me back to reality somewhat as the nurse stepped in front of me just before I reached the door, and threw her strong arms expertly around me. I realized then that I could never convince these people, or anyone else, about Big Mike, for to convince them of that would be to convince them of my insanity. One wu so and one was

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55

not so, only I knew that. I had to get away now.

I struggled and writhed in the nurse's arms. My nails raked the square unimaginative face in front of my own. Meadow's grunted in pain and stepped away momentarily but Dr. Blake had me by the arm and was calling down the stairs. I twisted desperately and jerked myself free. But crowding up the stairs now were two more nurses and a male attendant. I believe then I was out of my head for I threw myself down the stairs at them. The women went down under my weight with sh rill cries of alarm and pain, but the male attendant caught me and held my arms to my sides as though I were a child. I kicked but it did no good.

I was taken back into my room, Dr. Blake discreetly shutting the door behind us. Then I was put to bed in a restraining sheet. Do you know what they are? I'd seen them used for other patients, never guessing, never thinking— You can hardly move once you are in one. You can't get away and your bed is the trap. You can wiggle and struggle and thresh and fight but you're held as though in a sack. Your head is out and you can move it but your arms and legs are securely imprisoned. •