Tales from the Nightside Read Online Free PDF Page B

he circled the house; twice and three times he huddled on the porch, taking all the comfort he could from the shadows, trying to crouch away from the rising wind's rush as it hummed through the railing and dragged dark clouds closer.
    Up again, and this time he stopped in front of the slanting, double cellar doors with the rusted combination lock forced through the latch. His hands were bunched in his pockets, his shoulders stooped.
    Playmate, he thought, come out and play with me.
    His hair fell blackly against his face and scattered, alternately blinding him and freeing his vision while he worked at a game:
    a little boy inside there, down there in the dark, pale and ravenhaired, breaking a fruit juice glass, spilling his ration of milk over a shabby kitchen tablecloth. Often. Too often. A flurry of cloths from the scratched and stained porcelain sink, or an artificial sponge from the cabinet beneath. A storm of yelling, shrieking, commandments to be damned, and his mother who said she loved him would grab his shoulders with strong lovely hands that gripped like talons and squeezed for blood... strong lovely hands that would lead him and push him and shove him and guide him to the stairs that led into the empty coal bin, barren woodpile, grumbling furnace, damp concrete cellar floor. He would stumble down the steps through his I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry tears, and her words, and the door, would slam shut and lock solidly behind him.
    always;
    for as long as he could remember, for as long as memory would allow him to go back
    home late from his first real date alone with a girl and the smear of lipstick on his chin.
    the shrieking and the commandments and the cellar door locked solidly behind him.
    always; for as long as he could remember.
    longer.
    little Davey would scream... while darkness would entrap him in a thick barless cage and blind him;
    Davey would whimper... while the darkness would blacken to blot out the thin crack of kitchen-light that escaped to outline the door and hide the rickety rotting stairs and the coal bin and the woodpile and the shovels and the brooms and the empty preserve jars and the musty cartons and the cyclopean glow of the grumbling furnace fire;
    David would weep in frustration and rage... and the darkness would blacken...
    ... and everywhere he went there would be light so bright it would shame the summer sun.
    "Imagine that,” he whispered to the double doors, with a memory smile as wide as his face. "Imagine me acting like that."
    "Acting like what?"
    He spun around, terrified, excuses tumbling over themselves to his lips until he collided with the girl who had crept up behind him. She stood with her arms folded loosely over her chest, her face partially hidden in a billowing golden fur collar. He laughed easily, relievedly, and shook his head slowly. "Just remembering some times I had when I was a kid, Claire. That's all. It really wasn't very important."
    "When you were a kid, huh?" she said, grinning. "You that close to retiring, old man?"
    They stared at each other without awkwardness, without shifting their feet, without clearing their throats. Then they walked to the front without speaking. As they did, David watched her from the corner of his eye—and the hint of soft rose at her high cheeks, the growing pink at the tip of her stubby nose, made him doubt for the first time the wish behind the plan. He stood silently, facing the sidewalk, while she sat on the bottom porch step and hugged her knees, watching him measure the crawl of the hedge's shadow into the deserted street.
    There was the scent of rain in the air.
    Would it be the same, he wondered; would Claire be the same if she... would she be the same?
    When he had been fourteen and she was living across the street in the English Tudor with the leaded bow window, he had trusted her so much that he'd confided in her what he now understood was an extraordinarily abnormal fear of the dark. He gave her none of the reasons; he just told