Midnight Voices (11 page)

CHAPTER 12

It was late that afternoon, and as she closed the door behind what she hoped would be the last drop-in guest of the day, Caroline felt as if she’d been at hard labor the last two weeks instead of lounging on a Caribbean Island. And tomorrow and the weekend would be even worse, with school starting on Monday, which was why she’d insisted on coming home today instead of staying on Mustique until Sunday. “I need Friday and the weekend, and that’s that,” she told Tony, who’d been almost as bad as the kids in begging for the extra time on the island. “So we go home Thursday, and I don’t want to hear any more complaining from any of you.” But from the moment they’d arrived, when Rebecca Mayhew had come down the stairs before they’d even opened the front door, the stream of visitors had never let up—it was as if a magnet were drawing people to their door. After Rebecca came Alicia and Max Albion, apologizing profusely for Rebecca’s invasion, but bringing a huge tureen from which a decidedly peculiar smell was emanating.

“It’s only chicken soup,” Alicia said apologetically. “And I know it’s so warm today that you won’t even want it, but it’s my specialty and I just couldn’t resist making it for you. If you don’t want it, just throw it away—I’m sure that’s what everyone else does.”

“Nobody throws it away, and you know it,” Max assured his wife as Caroline took the tureen. “Alicia’s chicken soup is famous. And I brought something for the boy.”

Ryan, who hadn’t followed his sister and Rebecca up to the second floor of the apartment, edged closer to his mother, slipping his hand into Caroline’s as he gazed suspiciously at the plastic bag with a Sports Authority logo that Max Albion was offering him.

“It’s all right,” Caroline said, gently disengaging Ryan’s hand from her own.

Ryan reluctantly moved just close enough to Max Albion to take the bag, and when he opened it he did it almost as if he expected a snake to rise from its depths. But when he saw what was in the bag, the suspicion in his face suddenly turned to disbelief. “Wow,” he breathed, pulling the baseball mitt from the bag and slipping it onto his hand. “Awesome!” Then he was holding it up so his mother could see it. “Look! It’s the one I wanted!”

But Caroline had recognized the Wilson mitt as quickly as Ryan—the last time she’d seen it was the day before the wedding, when Ryan had dragged her into the Sports Authority on 57th for at least the dozenth time that summer, explaining once more why he absolutely couldn’t live without the mitt. Its hundred and fifty dollar price tag had been enough to explain to Caroline why he absolutely could
not
have it, though the commission on Irene Delamond’s remodel had been enough so that she had been at least tempted. Now she looked uncertainly at Max Albion. “You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

Albion shook his head, his florid jowls shaking slightly. “Nonsense,” he insisted. “A boy should have a mitt, and it shouldn’t be just any old mitt.” His attention shifted to Ryan. “Well, what do you say?” he asked. “Will it do?”

Ryan, already slamming his right fist into the mitt to start working on a pocket, looked up. “It’s great! I’ve been asking Mom for it all summer, but she said it cost too much!”

“And it did,” Caroline insisted. “It’s very nice of you, Mr. Albion, but I’m not sure Ryan can accept it.”

“Don’t be silly,” Max Albion boomed. “Of course he can accept it. Besides, it’s too late to take it back now—he’s already damaged it.” Obviously horrified at the idea that he might have done something to the mitt, Ryan looked up just in time to see his benefactor winking at him. “Isn’t that right, Ryan? Once you’ve started breaking in a glove to your hand, no one else can use it, can they?”

Ryan nodded solemnly even though he was perfectly aware that it would take him months to get the mitt properly broken in.

Caroline, recognizing defeat, gave in as gracefully as the mother of an eleven-year-old can. “Aren’t you going to thank Mr. Albion?”

“Thank you, Mr.—”

“Uncle Max,” Max Albion cut in. “Call me Uncle Max. And maybe we can break that mitt in right next weekend.” He turned back to Caroline. “You have no idea how good it feels to have a boy in the building. Things get too quiet with nothing but girls. Not healthy for us men,” he added, tipping his head toward Tony.

The rest of the day was a steady stream of neighbors, every one of them bearing something—a basket of scones, a plate of cinnamon rolls, a plate of homemade fudge that was smoother than anything Caroline had ever seen in a store, until by dinnertime it seemed like every surface in the huge kitchen was covered with plates, casserole dishes, and baskets. Even Virginia Estherbrook had shown up, bearing a spectacular arrangement of flowers, mostly tulips and daffodils, every one of them out of season. “For the springtime of your marriage, if not of the year,” she announced as she set the vase—a crystal object in the form of two nestled doves that Caroline had admired for years in the Lalique shop over on Madison—on a Victorian table in the entry hall, where it couldn’t possibly be missed by anyone coming into the apartment. “In another life, I must have been a florist,” she announced as she made an adjustment to the display that was so minute Caroline was almost certain it was more stage business than anything else. She stepped back, admired her work, then uttered a sigh that suddenly dissolved into a hacking cough.

“Are you all right?” Caroline asked, reaching out to steady the elderly actress.

Virginia Estherbrook waved her away. “Nothing serious. I’m just so tired I think I shall crawl into my bed and sleep for a month! Tell me you don’t mind if I simply drag myself home.”

Late in the afternoon Beverly Amondson and Rochelle Newman had arrived, Beverly with a bouquet of asters and Rochelle carrying a pound of Godiva chocolates. Beverly’s smile froze slightly when she saw the vase filled with tulips and daffodils, and Rochelle shook her head at the bounty in the kitchen as Caroline took her two friends on a tour of the duplex. “What kind of welcome wagon do they have in this building? It looks like a catering truck must have brought all this.”

Caroline shrugged. “They made everything themselves. I’m not going to have to cook for a month.”

“But I can see what you
are
going to have to do,” Beverly said as they moved from room to room. It seemed that everywhere they went, there was some kind of work to be done. In the rooms upstairs, most of the ceilings were stained by what must have been a serious leak from somewhere above—“which your husband apparently didn’t even notice for a year or so,” Rochelle archly observed—or the wallpaper was peeling and faded, or the carpet was so threadbare the backing was showing through. Some of the rooms smelled stale and musty, as if nobody had been in them for years.

And when the women got to Ryan’s room, they found the boy sitting forlornly on the bed, his mitt still on his hand, but his eyes brimming with tears.

“What is it, honey?” Caroline asked sitting down next to him.

Ryan looked up at his mother. “Can’t we go home?” he asked plaintively.

“Honey, this
is
home now,” Caroline reminded him. Her son’s mournful gaze wandered around the room he had been given. Though not quite as large as Laurie’s, it had still swallowed up his bed, his desk, the chest of drawers his clothes were in, and his father’s old footlocker as if they were nothing more than appetizers. Its ceiling was as stained and its walls as dingy as those of so many of the other rooms in the apartment, and there was an empty feeling to it that made Caroline understand exactly how Ryan felt. “I know it seems awfully big,” she said. “But in a few days you’ll get used to it, and it won’t seem nearly so empty.”

“It smells bad,” Ryan declared, wrinkling his nose, but dragging the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes to clear them of the tears that had flooded them a moment ago.

“Well, we can fix that next week,” Caroline assured him. “We’ll get rid of the wallpaper and paint it, and we’ll do it any way you want. And in the meantime,” she added as Ryan gave a snuffle that told her he was feeling a little better, “you’ve got that new mitt that Uncle Max gave you.”

Instantly, Ryan’s expression clouded again. “Do I have to call him Uncle Max?”

“Of course not—not if you don’t want to. But I thought you liked him.”

Ryan shrugged. “I guess he’s okay,” he said with absolutely no conviction in his voice at all.

“Well, he was nice enough to bring you the mitt, and he seems to like you,” Caroline said, giving him a hug, then standing up. “But you certainly don’t have to call him Uncle Max. And stop worrying—everything’s going to be wonderful. Just give it a chance, okay?”

Ryan nodded, but as they left his room, he was still sitting on the bed, staring miserably at the floor. “I’ll come say goodnight later,” Caroline said as she closed the door.

“Who is Uncle Max?” Rochelle asked as they went back downstairs.

“Max Albion—one of the neighbors. He and his wife have a foster child that Laurie’s already made friends with.”

Beverly raised an eyebrow. “Would that be the little girl Andrea’s so worried about?”

Caroline nodded. “The very one.”

Rochelle’s eyes went into full roll. “Oh, boy. Don’t let Andrea hear what Uncle Max did for Ryan—she’ll be yelling that he’s some kind of pervert. Or has she already given that title to Tony?”

“Oh, come on—Andrea’s not that bad. She just sees all the worst people, so she thinks all people are bad. Just like cops think everyone’s a criminal, and doctors think everyone’s sick.”

They came to the foot of the wide staircase, and Beverly looked around once more at the spacious foyer and the vast rooms opening off it. “She’s also the one who wanted you to hang up on Tony, remember? So just don’t let her wreck all this for you.”

“Don’t worry—she’s as happy for me as you are.”

Rochelle turned and looked Caroline straight in the eye. “If you believe that, you’re crazy. She doesn’t wish me well, and she doesn’t wish Beverly well. We both married far too well. When you were with Brad, that was okay—he wasn’t as poor as she might have hoped, but he wasn’t rich, either. But this—” Her eyes wandered over the faded opulence of the huge apartment. “This, she’s jealous of, and once you’ve fixed it up and you and Tony really settle in, I’ll bet she does everything she can to ruin it for you.”

A few minutes later, both Rochelle and Beverly were gone, and by nine, everyone else was too.

By ten, the children were in bed and asleep.

By eleven, Caroline and Tony were making love.

And at midnight, after Caroline had fallen sound asleep, the noises began . . .

CHAPTER 13

She was awake.

This time she was certain she was awake.

But she was blind.

No, not blind. Just lost in the darkness that had surrounded her so long that it had finally become her friend.

At least when the darkness was complete, the whispering voices were silenced, and sometimes she could almost believe they were gone forever.

Now she listened, straining to reach out into the darkness, to search for whatever danger might be there.

But there was nothing.

Maybe she was safe, at least for a little while.

In the silence and the darkness, she let her mind turn to other things.

Her body.

She tried to feel her body, to move her fingers and toes.

To lift a hand or an arm.

Nothing.

Was her body gone?

Was her mind all that was left, suspended in the silent darkness?

Was this all there would ever be? Would she spend eternity in the darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing?

Panic rose up inside her, and for a moment she was terrified that her mind itself would break, and she would finally fall forever into the nightmare world where the bright light hung over her, blinding her as much as the darkness, but letting her see the shapes of the tormentors that surrounded her, letting her anticipate the terrible pain that seized her as they began prodding and poking at her. She fought against the churning terror that threatened to overwhelm her, and finally managed to force it back into the darkness.

A sound!

The terror came rushing back, threatening to overwhelm her once again. She strained to listen once again, and when the sound—no more than a faint wheezing—crept once more out of the darkness, she braced herself for the light that was certain to follow.

The light, and the nightmare.

The sound grew louder, and now she heard what seemed like laughter.

The light went on; the brilliance slashed at her eyes.

Silhouetted figures drifted around her, black shadows against the light. Then the whispering began, sounds that seemed like words, but were unintelligible to her ears.

The light above her moved, but then she realized it wasn’t the light that was moving—it was she herself.

Then she was out of the brilliance of the light, and moving into the gloom.

The gloom of the nightmare.

Laurie had finally drifted into a sort of half-sleep. She knew she wasn’t quite asleep, but she wasn’t quite awake, either. But
not quite
awake was at least better than the hours that had gone before, when she’d rolled over and over in her bed, kicked the covers off then pulled them back on, turned the light on to read then turned it back off again, searched for a thermostat to make it cooler then tried to open her window, and finally gone back to bed, certain she was going to lie awake all night in the room that was so big it shouldn’t have been stuffy at all, but in which she was finding it harder and harder just to breathe, let alone fall asleep. The last time she’d looked at the clock—a little travel alarm in a gold-colored case that Tony had given her for the trip to Mustique—it had been eleven-thirty. Since then, time had seemed to creep by so slowly that she was expecting the glow of morning to start seeping in the window before she’d gotten to sleep at all. But finally a kind of lassitude had fallen over her, and when she first heard the faint noises in the darkness, she’d thought she must have been dreaming.

But a moment later, when she heard a distinct sound of laughter, she knew she wasn’t sleeping.

Reaching out, she pressed down on the large button on top of the clock, certain that it must be at least four in the morning. But the black hands silhouetted against the glowing green face told her it was just past midnight.

Was it really possible that time was going this slowly? It had seemed like so long since last time she’d looked at the clock—could it really be only half an hour? Sighing, she let the light in the clock blink off.

Then she heard it again.

Laughter, faint and muffled.

A pang of fear went through her. But what was there to be afraid of? There was nothing scary about laughter. It wasn’t like she’d heard a scream, or a cry, or even something really spooky, like a creaking sound. But even as she tried to rid herself of the fear that had suddenly come over her, she was already remembering the stories she’d heard when she was seven or eight, when she and Amber Blaisdell had stood across the street from The Rockwell, listening as one of the older kids told them about all the terrifying things inside the building.

Tales of ghosts, and monsters, and trolls and witches and ogres. Even then, she’d known they weren’t really true, that ghosts and monsters and trolls and witches and ogres didn’t really exist. “They’re just stories,” her father had explained to her the first time he’d read “Hansel and Gretel” out loud to her. “There are no such things as witches.” But she’d had a nightmare that night anyway, and even though she hadn’t quite believed the stories the older kids told her about The Rockwell, she’d had nightmares about them, too.

And now, tonight, as she lay in the darkness, all the stories came flooding back to her.

But they’re just stories,
Laurie told herself.
And all I heard was some people outside.

As if to prove to herself that there was nothing to be afraid of, she got out of bed and went to the window, peering down into the street below. There were a few cars cruising up and down the street, mostly taxis with their toplights glowing optimistically though the night was warm enough that what few people were out were happy to be walking. But by the time she got to the window, the laughter had faded away and even though she stood at the window for several more minutes, she heard nothing. Finally she went back to bed.

She lay in the dark, waiting.

Waiting for sleep?

Or waiting for the sound to come again?

Then, just as she was once more drifting off, it happened.

Not quite a laugh this time.

This time a sort of scuffling noise!

And whispered words: “Shh! You’ll wake the dead!”

A giggle that was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Then more scuffling noises, and more whispering, but this time so quiet she couldn’t make out the words.
But it sounded like it was coming from the other side of the bedroom wall.

She got out of bed and pressed her ear to the plaster.

Louder!

The room next door? Suddenly her heart was pounding. Ryan’s room? Was someone in Ryan’s room? But Ryan’s room was on the other side of the hall, down near the staircase!

More whispering, and this time she was certain she heard footsteps when she pressed her ear against the wall.

The fear she had conquered only moments ago suddenly came flooding back, but once again she refused to give in to it. She went to her door, listened, and when she heard no sound from outside, twisted the key.

The bolt snapped.

Locked!

But now what should she do?

Call for her mother?

Desperately, she tried to remember where her mother’s room was. Downstairs? No—it was on this floor—she was almost certain.

She went back to the wall through which she’d heard the faint sounds of talk, and laughter, and people moving.

Now there was nothing.

She stayed perfectly still, her ear pressed to the wall, doing her best not even to breathe, straining to hear.

Nothing.

But her heart was still pounding, and her stomach was still knotted with fear.

She didn’t know how long she stayed there, listening to the silence beyond the wall, but finally, when her neck began to hurt from pressing her head against the wall, she went back to her bed and once more pushed the knob on top of the little alarm clock.

12:45.

Laurie, perched on the edge of her bed and now wide awake, stared at the face of the clock for a long time. Had it really been forty-five minutes since she’d heard the first noise?

How long since the noise had stopped?

Finally she went back to the door of her room, and listened again.

Silence.

Holding her breath, she twisted the key in the lock once more. The snap of the bolt as it clicked open startled her so badly she jumped back from the door. Then, working up her courage, she reached out and slowly turned the knob.

Pulled the door open, just a crack.

Pressed her eye to the crack.

Peered out into the hall.

A dim night-light glowed.

Silence.

Her heart thumping in her chest, she pulled the door open and slipped out into the hall. She wanted to run to her mother’s room, burst through the door, and leap into bed.

But which was her mother’s door?

And besides, her mother wasn’t alone.

Tony would be with her.

Maybe she should just go back to her own bed.

But what if she heard the sounds again? For what seemed like an eternity, Laurie stood in the hallway just outside the door to her room. The hallway and the upper landing of the staircase seemed even larger in the dim glow of the night-light than they had earlier, when she’d come upstairs to bed. But down the hall, only a few yards away, was the door to the room next to hers.

The room from which she’d heard the sounds.

Had she really heard anything?

Maybe not—maybe she’d fallen asleep, and the sounds had existed only in a dream.

But if they hadn’t—if there were people in that room—

Suddenly she felt like she was being torn apart. Part of her wanted to run and find her mother, but another part of her wanted to retreat back into her room, lock the door, and pull the covers up over her head.

But a third part of her—a part that seemed to be gaining strength every second—wanted to go to the door of the room next door, pull it open, and look inside.

Don’t,
Laurie told herself. But even as she silently gave herself the order, she started down the hallway. A few seconds later, her heart pounding, her breathing shallow, she stood in front of the mahogany panel. The ornately carved crystal knob seemed to glow from within as it caught the rays of the night-light and refracted them into a rainbow of color.

And as Laurie’s fingers closed on it, it seemed almost warm, as if the fiery light within had somehow heated it. She hesitated, part of her mind still screaming at her to run back to her room, lock the door, and hide under the covers. But that other part—the part that had to know—won out.

She turned the knob, and pushed open the door.

She waited, too terrified even to breathe.

But nothing happened—the room beyond the door was as quiet as it was dark.

Finally Laurie reached inside, felt for the button that was the light switch, and pressed it.

The chandelier, identical to the one in her own room, flashed on, and the darkness washed away.

The room was empty.

Empty, and quiet.

Dead quiet.

Laurie stood at the door for several long seconds, her eyes searching every corner of the room. It was almost as large as hers, but furnished not only with a bed and dresser, but a chaise longue, a wing-backed chair, a desk and a table.

All the furniture was hidden by white dust covers.

It felt as if nobody had been in it for years.

No people—no whispers or giggles or laughter—no scuffling of feet.

Just an empty room.

So it had been just a dream—just a trick her mind had played on her.

Closing the door, Laurie went back to her own room, closed and relocked her door, and went back to bed.

And lay awake for at least another hour, haunted not only by the strange sounds that had come out of the darkness, but by the stories she thought she had long ago left behind her.