Elemental (42 page)
Authors: Steven Savile
“I'm Caroline, and this is my son, Michael,” Mom said. “I'm afraid my husband Dan is away. He travels a lot on business.”
“I'm Rosie, and this is Wagner. Welcome to the neighborhood. Don't let Lizzie make a nuisance of herself. Send her on home if she's irritating you.”
“On the contrary,” said Mom. “She's terrific. It's like having a native guide.”
“Mama, look, Caroline made cookies for you. They're great.”
“You're a baker!” said Rosie. “Something we have in common! Well, Caroline, I'm so glad you and Michael are here now.” Rosie peeled the
HandiWrap off the plate of cookies, offered them to Wagner, who took one, bit it, and grinned. “What a sweet way to say hello. I see you have other deliveries to make, though, so don't let us keep you. Stop by afterward for tea if you like.”
HandiWrap off the plate of cookies, offered them to Wagner, who took one, bit it, and grinned. “What a sweet way to say hello. I see you have other deliveries to make, though, so don't let us keep you. Stop by afterward for tea if you like.”
“Or tomorrow,” said Wagner. “Dark's coming on.”
“Or tomorrow,” Rosie repeated. “Lizzie will give you our phone number. Let's make a date.”
“Thank you, I will.”
They trooped round to every house on their block. Lizzie already knew everyone, and introduced them, but rushed them, too. They lingered only at Mrs. Plank's house, where Lizzie broached the subject of the piano almost before the introductions.
Mrs. Plank, gray-haired and stern-looking, pursed her lips and studied Michael. She nodded decisively. “Come in and give it a whirl, boy,” she said, gesturing him in, then leading them all to the front parlor, a room with comfortable-looking couches, tall lamps over the armchairs, a futuristic fifties coffee table in aluminum and glass, and a baby grand piano painted white.
Michael checked with her again, and she nodded. He sat down on the piano bench and lifted the key cover, rested his fingers on the keys. “It's been two years,” he said.
“I won't expect virtuosity, then.”
He stared into her gray eyes, then looked down and let his fingers go. Chopin emerged, startling him: a waltz. He didn't remember practicing it, but there it was, in his hands' memory if not his mind's; he played through to the end without stumbling, took a deep breath, let it out, and met Mrs. Plank's gaze again.
She nodded. “Come by between three and four on weekday afternoons if you're so inclined.”
He stood up. “Thank you.”
“That's all right. Couldn't have stood it if you were a rank beginner, but I can put up with a lot of Chopin.”
By the time they'd reached the final house across the street, the sun
was streaking the clouds with rose and amber. The young couple greeted them, grabbed the cookies, and slammed the door almost in their faces.
was streaking the clouds with rose and amber. The young couple greeted them, grabbed the cookies, and slammed the door almost in their faces.
“Yeah,” Lizzie said, “better get home.”
She separated from them in the street and dashed to her front door. Michael and Mom, infected by everyone's urgency, rushed home and locked themselves into the house.
A breeze was coming from Michael's room; he'd left the window wide. He went in and shut it almost all the way, then hammered the big nails into the sill so the window wouldn't open more than an inch, but he only tapped them in a half an inch so he could pry them out again tomorrow. He grabbed the cassette recorder, said, “Test. It's the night of August 26 in Random, and I'm maybe expecting company tonight. Anything further will be the voice of a Stranger, with any luck.” He tossed the recorder on his bed and met Mom in the kitchen, where they put together dinner and verbally dissected their new neighbors.
“Despite the weird night stuff,” Mom said, “I feel like this is the best neighborhood we've lived in for a long time.”
“Me, too.”
They spent the evening unpacking boxes in the living room and setting up the bookshelves in the hall. Mom made up the inflated bed on the floor in the master bedroom. “Brush your teeth and check the locks,” she said. “I'm going to turn the lights out in about half an hour.”
Another thing he didn't like about sharing a room. In his own room, he could read himself into exhausted sleep. “Can you leave a night light on for me? I have something to do first,” he said.
“What?”
Should he tell her? She'd forbid him to try to tape the Strangers, he was pretty sure. It might be dangerousâthough how it could be, when he had nailed the window shut, he wasn't sure. She wouldn't want to take chances even in the name of science and detection. “Just something.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Leave the bedroom doors open.”
He went through the house and checked every door and window to make sure they were closed tight and locked. He checked the stove: all
the burners were off. Then he slipped into his bedroom, leaving the door ajar and the lights off, grabbed the little tape recorder, and sat on the rug by his bed, a couple feet from the window. He had left the curtains open. Cool, damp, salty air flowed in through the crack.
the burners were off. Then he slipped into his bedroom, leaving the door ajar and the lights off, grabbed the little tape recorder, and sat on the rug by his bed, a couple feet from the window. He had left the curtains open. Cool, damp, salty air flowed in through the crack.
Time inched by. The curtains fluttered as a damp breeze played with them. Outside was faintly lit by an orange street light. What if the Strangers didn't come? What if it was all some big hoax, some weird way to welcome newcomers to town, scare the crap out of them and laugh later? Quite a collaboration, though, with Gracie in on it, and Lizzie, and everybody on the block who had hesitated to answer their knock tonight, then ducked back into their houses a little too quickly for politeness.
“Michael.”
The silhouette of a head showed in the window against the copper-edged night. Michael startled, then pressed the Record button on the tape recorder.
“What?” he said in a low voice.
“Michael.” It was a whisper. Maybe it was too faint for his recorder to pick up.
“What?”
“Come here.”
“I don't think that's a good idea. People have been telling us about you.”
“What did they say?”
Michael wished it would speak with a voice instead of a whisper. He couldn't tell if it was male or female.
“They said you're Strangers and you lure people to their deaths.”
The shadow laughed. It turned sideways. Its profile was strange. Something spiky lay along the top of its head.
It turned back. “Sometimes we do,” it said.
“What do you want with me? I don't want to go to my death.”
“We want you to come home.”
“What?”
“Come home, Michael. You've been so long away.”
Cold crept through his gut, arrowed up his spine.
“We lost you long ago. We couldn't reclaim you until now. Come home, Michael.”
“What are you saying?” Michael whispered. He crept closer to the window.
“Come outside and we will show you.” Then it hissed something, louder than its whisper, but not a simple hiss, something that divided into syllables and tones. Galvanized, Michael straightened. A hiss, but words, and he could almost translateâ
Another hiss, a stroke, a caress. His name, but not Michael.
“Come back to us,” whispered the voice, followed by the hiss Michael almost recognized.
“Michael!” Mom's voice was a yell from his doorway.
Mom switched on the light, and Michael dropped the tape recorder. Something pale, with spots of green glow where eyes should be, stared in through the window at them; then it was gone.
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He rewound the tape recorder at the kitchen table while Mom made cocoa.
There was a lot of hissing silence on the tape, interrupted by his own voice, saying, “What?” “What?” “I don't think that's a good idea ⦠.”
“How could you?” Mom asked. “What were you thinking?”
“I wanted to find out what it wants.”
“Why?” She brought filled mugs to the table, set one in front of him.
“What are you saying?” Michael's voice said from the tape recorder. A murmur that he could almost hear, and then a burst of hissing that was definitely loud enough to recordâ
“Is that its voice?” Mom asked.
“Shh!” Michael rewound and listened to the hisses again. Rewound, listened again. Again.
He pressed the stop button and sat with his hand on the tape recorder.
“What is it?” Mom asked.
The time and the chance for change has come again at last. Come back to us, Ssskzz. Come home.
Michael shook his head.
“That's it, isn't it? That hissing? Gracie was right. When I turned on the light and saw that face, oh my God, Michael, oh, my God, and you were
talking
to it?” The resurgence of her hysteria swept over them both. She had babbled like this just after she had looked into his room; it had taken him fifteen minutes to calm her. “We can't stay here. We can't stay here. No matter how nice the neighbors are, we can't stay here. It's a good thing we didn't finish unpacking. I'll get a U-Haul tomorrow morning and we'll head inland. We could go back to Idaho. Things like this never happened there, and our house hasn't sold yet ⦠.”
talking
to it?” The resurgence of her hysteria swept over them both. She had babbled like this just after she had looked into his room; it had taken him fifteen minutes to calm her. “We can't stay here. We can't stay here. No matter how nice the neighbors are, we can't stay here. It's a good thing we didn't finish unpacking. I'll get a U-Haul tomorrow morning and we'll head inland. We could go back to Idaho. Things like this never happened there, and our house hasn't sold yet ⦠.”
“Mom,” Michael said.
She took three gulps of cocoa and a few deep breaths. “I'm going to call your father.” She went to the phone, stared at the itinerary Dan had printed out and taped on the wall before he left on his trip, and dialed. “Daniel Welty's room, please ⦠. Hello? Who
is
this? What? What? Is Dan there? He is? Tell him it's his wife on the phone, and I don't care what kind of meeting he's in, I need to talk to him right now.” She held the phone away from her ear and muttered, “Sales associate, my ass.”
is
this? What? What? Is Dan there? He is? Tell him it's his wife on the phone, and I don't care what kind of meeting he's in, I need to talk to him right now.” She held the phone away from her ear and muttered, “Sales associate, my ass.”
Michael turned down the volume on the recorder, rewound it, and played it again, holding it up to his ear. There were nuances in the words that a simple translation couldn't catch, a strain of loss, a thread of opportunity, a breath of hope and longing, a whisper of welcome.
“Don't even bother trying to explain, Dan. I don't care what bimbo you're with. Michael and I are in a crisis here. We can't stay in Random. We're moving tomorrow morning. What? No. Why does everything have to be about you?”
Michael stood up and eased out of the room. His mother's back was to him; he was sure she didn't notice he was gone. He went to the front
door and slid the chain sideways, eased it off, then opened the deadbolt. He clicked up the pushbutton lock on the doorknob and stood, his hand wrapped around the doorknob, and waited.
door and slid the chain sideways, eased it off, then opened the deadbolt. He clicked up the pushbutton lock on the doorknob and stood, his hand wrapped around the doorknob, and waited.
How could he leave her? Dad had been leaving Mom more and more, in increments, leaving them both for longer trips, with shorter visits in between, moving them around like knights on a chessboard, then leaving them behind. Mom and Michael depended on each other. He couldn't leave her.
He had to find out what the Stranger had been talking about. Did it really know who he was, where he came from? Could it tell him? He had toâ
The doorknob turned in his hand. He eased the front door open and stepped out onto the porch.
But what about Gracie, and Lizzie, and all the new neighbors? What about Mrs. Plank, and permission to play the piano? What about a whole town that knew it had strange neighbors, and worked around them? What if the Strangers really ate people, and everything it said had been designed to lure him out of the house and into the open air, where it could net him, gut him, and take his fillets home for its children to snack on?
What about Mom?
It stood to his left before he noticed its approach, a tall, shadowed figure that smelled strongly of fish and brine and dripped on the boards of the porch.
“Wait,” he said. “I just want to talk.”
“We want to free you,” it whispered.
“From what?”
“From the chains of this limited existence. You've suffered enough.”
“What do you mean? I'm not suffering.”
“Aren't you? Trapped in this thin atmosphere that can't even support you? Glued feet downward to this dirt? Deaf to the feel of sounds? Come home, where every breath is a taste and every movement a touch. Come home. Your family longs for you.”
“I can't leave Mom. I don't even know you. Everyone here says you hurt people. How can I trust you?”
“Look in your heart. Walk with us, Michael, and we will teach you how to fly.”
“Michael,” said another. He glanced over and saw a second shadow. Three more materialized at the foot of the front porch stairs. They all peered up at him, slender forms with wrong-shaped heads. He felt it, then, the beat of a second heart in his chest, the thud of another system inside. It started slowly, but it accelerated as he stood among them.
“Michael!” Mom screamed from inside the house. “Michael! Where are you? Michael!” She flung open the door, letting house light fan across the creatures, and then she screamed, a loud, high, mindless shriek, heavy with woe.
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