Small Magic: Collected Short Stories Part 8

Lucey frowned.

"Can I see your key?" the man asked.

She hesitated, but held it out.

"Oh. Second floor." He pushed a hand into his pocket and produced his own key. "Me, it was numbers. See." His hand opened to reveal a silver key with the number five.

Lucey's hands began to tremble. "I-I don't understand...where am I?"

"I don't know, really. But wherever it is you want to be...well, you can't get there from here."

Lucey blinked. "I'll fix things. I'll change the doors again." She backed toward the stairs.

"Good luck." The man crossed his arms. "I'll be waiting in the lobby."

Chapter 39: Treats.

"I think I got everything." Zach dropped two plastic grocery bags on the floor.

"Everything?" Nick asked. "What'll it be this year?"

Zach patted one bag. "Apples."

"Going old school?"

"Sure. Why not?" Zach rustled through the other bag, producing a box of generic razorblades and package of caramels. The blades rattled together as he tossed both on the small table.

"Okay...what's with the caramels?"

Zach shook his head. "For the apples, of course. Helps hide the razor marks." His lips curled into a smile, stretched by curving scars at either end of his mouth.

Chapter 40: Courts.h.i.+p.

They were black, both of them, with a sheen on their skin like discarded cooking oil under the midnight stars. Twig-thin arms held them aloft as they clung to the trees. They leapt and glided, navigating through the neighborhood branches, tiny shadows flitting between chasms of black. Small sacks made of a coa.r.s.e material hung to their sides; muted clinks sounded within as they darted from shadow to shadow.

They shambled the brick facade of a house like a ladder, clung to the sill of the window, and faced each other. Yellow eyes blinked. Jagged mouths cracked and crooked teeth glistened under the cold light of the moon. One of them pressed a hard claw against the wood at the center of the window frame, pus.h.i.+ng hard enough to sc.r.a.pe free a line of paint as the point scratched along the lock. A smell of ash and sulfur floated through the air. The lock mechanism followed the claw and slid open.

Both grinned.

They hopped to the floor on padded feet with tiny thumps and the minute click of claws against hardwood. Small hands pulled at the comforter as they scurried to the top of the mattress. Each took position next to one of the sleepers' heads. The woman's red hair spread in dark waves against her sheets; the man's mouth hung open, and his breath whispered in a low rhythm.

The black things busied themselves with the contents of their bags: hooks and wires and long needles thin like spun silk. They laid these tools on the pillows. A hint of moonlight glowed in the metal. Each chose two long needles with tiny loops at the end and pushed them into the flesh of the sleepers' necks. The skin puckered, a tiny dimple, and then each needle vanished until only the loop remained. The man stirred, but the woman did not flinch.

They continued their work: more needles-some at the base of the skull, the spine, then the hooks, the wires. They looked at each other again, yellow eyes wet with antic.i.p.ation. The room filled with the black smell of old fire.

The man jerked upright first, guided by wire. His eyes popped open as did his mouth.

The woman slipped from the bed with more graceful motion. A jagged mouth whispered at her ear.

The man and woman faced each other.

The tug of a wire, and his hand slapped against her face. She reeled, but the thing on her back plucked her strings and forced both hands into fists. One struck the man in the jaw. He staggered from the bed as she stumbled into the hall.

They would need more s.p.a.ce to dance.

The black things guided their flesh-puppets through to a room walled on one side by a large fireplace. Clawed hands worked quickly, playing a symphony of sliver strings as the man and woman tore at each other with fists and feet and finally, after livid flesh and torn clothing, teeth. At their masters' whim, the man and woman watched as their bodies disobeyed; both tried to speak, but only managed awkward gibbers and squeaks from their throats. Tears pressed from their wild eyes.

When the black things at their backs laughed, the sound cracked against the walls like broken gla.s.s.

After several hot minutes of their dance, they parted. The man and woman stood naked in the room, beaten and bleeding, panting and clutching at the air. Yellow eyes met over their shoulders, and two black heads bobbed in agreement. The man and woman collided and collapsed, cradled together in a ma.s.s of flesh on the rug before the fireplace. Black whispers floated a lullaby, and they slipped into sleep.

Needles slid from their spines, their shoulders, and brains. The black things cleaned their instruments against the rough cloth of their bags and tucked them inside. With a final snap of fingers, a fire flickered in the hearth to warm the naked man and woman as they slept. The tiny click of claws against hardwood sounded again, then the slide of a window closing in the bedroom.

In the morning, the man and woman would wake, cleaving naked to one another with only bruises, cuts, and hushed tones between them and their night dancing. They would weep for the nightmare they shared. But for the time, they slept and dreamed of warmth and closeness, of the crackle of the fire whispered in their ears, and forgot the darkness that lived outside.

Chapter 41: Bleeding the Trees.

When I was younger, I helped my Uncle Reggie harvest maple sap and boil it down to sell as syrup in Dad's shop. I remember the thick amber color of fresh sap, the stiffness in my hands after a day of lugging full buckets, and the warm, sweet odor of the sugar shack. I can still see the dark gleam in Reggie's eyes when he was busy in the grove. He loved those trees, singing lullabies to them when we'd leave at night.

I was ten when the big storm hit at the start of harvest season. The weather has to be just right to produce the most sap-freezing during the night and warm during the day. It often snows during harvest season, but this storm rolled in and erased the whole valley. Reggie, full of concern for his trees, ignored the warnings and went out that morning, quickly vanis.h.i.+ng into the blank world.

Mom filled with concern for her kid brother and called the county sheriff in Middlebury. They couldn't do anything until the snows stopped. Days pa.s.sed. Deputies eventually came around on snowmobiles, but there were parts of the woods too choked with snow to search. Reggie had melted away like a ghost.

We had no sign of my uncle until our neighbors, Susie VanNuyck's folks, found him a few days after the deputies abandoned search. He was raw and frostbitten, raving and frothing about "bleeding the trees." Fresh scars in little staccato dashes covered both arms.

Reggie wasn't right when we brought him home. He woke at the usual time, dressed, ate his breakfast, and made like he would go manage the trees. But on most days he didn't-not like he used to anyway. Sometimes I saw him after school, walking through the village with blank eyes. Sometimes I saw him meandering in the grove, not really tending the maples, but wandering-lost. Then I read snippets in the village paper about missing pets.

I didn't connect any of the stories with Reggie; when he would disappear all day, I figured he was just babying those maple trees again. I wanted my uncle to be okay. One Sat.u.r.day morning, I followed Uncle Reggie, curious as to why he hadn't invited me to harvest with him since the storm. He jerked through the woods carrying a stuffed burlap sack. After every fifty feet or so, Reggie would stop and flick a glance over one shoulder. Maybe he knew I was following him; maybe he wanted me to see.

I drifted behind, feeling some fear swell where there shouldn't be fear. My stomach tightened, squeezed by a giant's hands. This was Uncle Reggie, right? The guy who taught me all the secrets of the maple trees and how to tap the best sap?

Deep in the woods, Reggie dropped the sack, reached inside, and yanked out a dog, a little black terrier with a wide red collar. That's about all I could see. Reggie took the dog over to a tree-the mutt was squealing like mad, kicking its little puppy feet. A knife flicked out of Reggie's sleeve, and he flayed that dog alive; his hands ran red as he shook its body over the tree, rubbing the blood all over.

When I close my eyes, I still see that awful, red-black blood pulsing between Reggie's fingers.

I ran away, headed for the house, but tripped on a downed maple branch that let out a loud pop. My ankle throbbed; the blood in my veins hammered against my skull. Reggie had me by the collar before I could scramble to my feet. I smelled the awful, warm, dog odor. He spun me around-I swear he had no irises, just pure oil-slick in his eyes, dancing around loose in his skin-tight skull. The gleam was gone-replaced by nothingness.

"Blood will have blood, won't it boy? We bleed the trees...what do they get?"

I shook. Tears came.

"They're real thirsty." He smiled, and his teeth jutted out, brown and awful. "I'm going to need something bigger."

I pushed him away-he must have let me go; I quaked like the last autumn leaf to fall in a gale, b.u.mbling my way back to the house. When I got home, I stripped off my stained jacket-marred with Reggie's b.l.o.o.d.y hands-and threw it in the furnace, too frightened to tell anyone.

Susie VanNuyck vanished the next week. Rumors blew through the valley. News vans parked in the village square and laid siege to the VanNuyck house for a while. She was my age, and Mom started escorting me everywhere. Reggie kept eyeing me, daring me to say something until I finally cracked, and sobbed to my folks who, in turn, called the sheriff.

Reggie went quietly, except just before they shoved him in the back of a cruiser, he lurched free and lunged at me. "They were thirsty, boy. Crying to me in the cold night. I had to feed them something warm..." The officers wrapped his arms in their rough fists and tossed him in the waiting car.

I thought about the scars criss-crossing his arms and the time he wandered during the snowstorm. I saw the little terrier bleeding in Reggie's hands. I tried to remember Susie's face-we'd gone to school together-but I lost the memory in a wash of black.

The Addison County Sheriff found carca.s.ses of some two dozen small animals out in the reduction shed, but no Susie. Without any evidence, the kidnapping charges wouldn't stick. Reggie served a good deal of time for his other crimes, but Mom says he is out of prison now. He never came home. I imagine he's probably out there, somewhere, babying those trees again.

Chapter 42: Quiet Time.

He sent away for the box six weeks ago. Finding the ad in the back of an old issue of Carnage Corps at the comic shop, he tore along the dotted line and pushed the rough, pulpy paper inside his waistband. His breath froze in his chest as he walked past the clerk. Heart ready to burst, his rubber soles pounded against asphalt, and the ad flew away with the next day's mail.

The box arrived on a rainy day. The boy scooped it into his arms, brushed his damp sneakers on the rug in the foyer, and rushed to his room to read the instructions.

His father was first, and the boy snuck into the living room while the television prattled away and the old man snored in his recliner. Following the directions, he started at the man's feet, peeling back the flaps of the box and pulling the man's toes inside. His father stirred, but did not wake. With a hushed sucking noise, not unlike a noodle dancing into one's mouth, the box took care of the rest.

Later that night, he added his mother and sister--each with a propensity to mutter in her sleep. The box made short work of both. Swoooosh. Swooosh. Cardboard flaps tucked together, and he tacked them down with a slick length of packing tape.

He affixed the return label that came with the box and set it on his stoop for the postman. Then, exhausted from his work, the boy crawled under the warm weight of his quilt, pulled an extra pillow to his chest, and slept until noon, the first solid night of sleep in ages.

Chapter 43: Policy Woes.

The memorandum, delivered by a man in green, made it clear that the accident was unfortunate, and the company took the remains to the Hall of Resurrection. A nice gesture, Molly thought, to send a real live person to deliver the news. She called for a taxi, and sped to the Hall.

Molly watched the cityscape melt into a blur through the tinted faux-gla.s.s. She began to imagine life with a new Roger. Death on the job usually meant retirement with a full pension; they could leave for the lunar cruise as soon as his coordination and muscular function were back. She pondered the possibility of a small cabin on one of the new Aleutians. Perhaps, with the pension and death bonus, they could live their dreams now instead of scrimping and saving for another fifteen years.

"Destination achieved," barked a metal-box voice from the front of the taxi. "Hall of Resurrection."

Molly slid her fee card, nodded to the robot, and hopped from the cab onto a white platform. The doors of the hall stood twenty yards away, tall, sweeping doors emblazoned with silver imprints of Davinci's man. The slogan, "New Life Now", arched above the entrance in large, block letters. She smiled at a few people milling about and hurried into the hall.

In the lobby, Molly dodged the great Resurrection Fountain, a stylized sculpture of a man rising from a frothy pool, his hands stretched toward the sky. She sidled to the reception desk and waited while the attendant tapped away on her keypad.

"Name?"

Molly started. "Oh, me? Molly Preutis."

"No ma'am, name of client?"

Molly's face stained red. "Sorry, I've never," her eyes floated to the domed ceiling, "well, I've never been here before. Roger. Roger Preutis. That's my husband."

The attendant nodded. "Yes. Someone will be with you in a moment."

"Thank you." Molly stepped away from the desk and scanned the room, fully realizing the beauty of the grand statue. She moved to the edge of the pool and looked into the bubbling water.

"Almost hypnotizing, isn't it?"

"What?" Molly looked up and found herself face to face with a thin plank of a man with a smudge of black hair and thin gla.s.ses. "Oh, yes."

"You're Molly?"

"Yes..."

His hand extended and shook hers. "Quinton Boge. I'm a case manager here."

Molly pulled her hand away, his skin suddenly feeling cold. "There's been a problem, hasn't there?"