Poltergeist II - The Other Side (7 page)

A wispy, steamy tentacle snaked out of the receiver, twisting higher, giving birth to itself, translucent and cold. Hovering above Carol Anne, it grew brighter.

“Carol Anne!” Robbie tried to yell, but it came out a croak.

The ectoplasm brewed around the ceiling, becoming a hand that danced, flexed, palpated the fixtures. Then it reformed into something resembling a head and torso, but mutant, corrupt. It seemed to gaze around, studying the room, studying Carol Anne.

With a sudden ripping
CRACK
, it expelled itself completely from the phone, into the room—and with an intense, bursting light, it migrated violently into the walls.

The house shook like an earthquake was upon it, and it didn’t stop.

Diane woke up first; she thought she was dreaming. “Steven!”

They jumped out of bed together as lamps crashed to the floor, books tumbled from shelves. They lost their footing twice as they ran down the hallway to the children’s room, but the tremor halted as soon as they reached the door.

Inside they found Carol Anne and Robbie huddled in the middle of the floor, clutching each other and Carol Anne’s guardian angel doll.

When she saw her parents, Carol Anne knew it was starting all over again; and she knew she had to tell them. “They’re here,” she said.

Steve’s face went white. “Oh, shit . . . not again . . .”

It took them about five minutes to dress and pack. Carol Anne carried only her doll, Diane carried only her daughter, Steve carried only one suitcase, Robbie carried a knapsack full of toys.

E. Buzz barked incessantly as the whole troop clambered down the stairs, then along the front hallway toward the door. And the entire distance they were followed by the thudding of huge, monster footsteps, pounding closer each moment, within the substance of the house.

“Hurry, please, hurry,” Diane whimpered. “Don’t turn around.” Just like last time. It was all coming back.

“Don’t panic!” bellowed Steve. Then, in a whisper “Don’t panic!!”

“Oh, God,” prayed Robbie. Maybe the thing was after
him
this time.

“Don’t stop!” shouted Steve.

Diane reached the front door first, swung it open, and screamed: there was something there.

Someone, actually. It was Taylor.

The pounding in the house grew louder, as Steve moved forward angrily on the large man who was impassively blocking their way. “Who the hell are
you
?”

“Name’s Taylor,” said Taylor stoically.

“Well . . . great,” said Steve, plowing past him with family in tow. “Nice meeting you. We’re going now.”

The reverberating footsteps were almost to the front door . . . but Taylor made a quick gesture and spoke an ancient Way, and the footsteps disappeared.

Then he turned to Steve, who was already in the driveway, hunting for his car keys. “Tangina Barrons sent me,” he said to the fleeing Freelings.

Steve found his keys. “Terrific. Say hello to the magic munchkin for us.” He opened the car door.

Diane was slowed by that name, though. She looked at Taylor. “Sent you for what?” she said.

“It’s no use running,” said Taylor. “It’ll find you. You’re better off here.”

For a moment, his words stunned the entire family. They stared at him as if he were a prophet of doom.

Steve recovered his first intent, though. “Good.” He threw the word at Taylor like a knife. “You stay. We’re gone.” Then to his family: “Come on. In the car. Let’s go.

They all piled into the station wagon with varying degrees of reluctance, fear, and confusion. Diane was relieved that Steve was taking control of the situation, though she wasn’t sure this messenger from Tangina should be dismissed out of hand. Steve, for his part, wasn’t really thinking at all; he just wanted to get the hell out of there. Robbie was actually kind of excited about the whole thing, now that they were out of the house.

And Carol Anne looked at Taylor with a curious smile. She liked that man; she didn’t know why. She felt almost like she knew him from someplace, though; she just couldn’t remember where.

She gave him a little wave out the back window of the car.

Taylor waved back.

Steve started the car with an untuned rumble, pulled out of the driveway, and screeched off down the street into the night.

An hour down I-10 going west, they pulled into an all-night roadside diner. They sat at a booth by the window, ordered chocolate sundaes for the little kids and coffee for themselves, and stared silently into their own thoughts.

It was finally Robbie who spoke first. “Are we gonna move again, Dad?”

That was, of course, everyone’s question—resolve themselves to an over-the-shoulder life of half-ignored fears, half-repressed memories, ready to pick up and run every few years? Every time it found them? Whatever
it
was?

Everyone looked at Steve.

“Well, son . . . I don’t know.” He sighed at the admission and tried to include them all in what he perceived as his own private loss of will. “I guess . . . we’ll have to think about it.”

Diane didn’t want to leave, now that the first flush of fright was past. This was no sterile tract house of Sheetrock and PVC; this was her mother’s
home. Diane’s
home. They couldn’t just . . . walk away. “Where can we go?” she demanded.

“Disneyland!” suggested Carol Anne.

“Don’t be such an infant,” Robbie scolded her.

“Then how about Knott’s Berry Farm?” Carol Anne goaded her brother. She hated it when he tried to act like an adult. She didn’t ever want to be an adult. Adults died and got scary.

“Okay, you two, settle down,” warned Diane. She had enough to think about without monitoring
them.
She took all the change from her purse and handed it over. “Here, go play the videos.”

The kids ran off to the other end of the diner, leaving Steve and Diane to sort it out.

“Steven, what
are
we going to do?”

“I’m thinking,” he lied. He was wallowing.

Behind them, at the counter, sat two overweight, T-shirted, redneck women, the younger one in hair curlers, the older one in her cups. “You’re just a pack o’ trouble, Momma,” the younger one was saying. “Why you messin’ around with that bum is beyond me.”

“Cuz I likes him, that’s why,” replied her sullen momma.

Diane tried to ignore their rising voices. “Steven,” she said, taking his hand across the table, “we’ve got to go
somewhere.
We can’t just drive around.”

Steve was feeling trapped.

The woman in hair curlers stood, saying to the other, “Well, Momma, don’t be bringin’ him to
my
house. That’s all
I
can say.” Then she turned and, without any preliminary, walked directly over to Steve and Diane. She spoke softly, and her voice changed character completely. It was Jess’s voice. “Listen, children,” it said, “you can’t run from this thing. It has made contact with you and will stop at nothing. You must fight him head-on. Stay together. Be loving. Be brave.”

Diane turned pale. “Mom?!” she whispered.

The woman suddenly shivered, blinked, and looked at Diane as if seeing her for the first time.

“Mom?” Diane said again.

The woman made a face. “What? I ain’t your mom, lady.” Her voice was pure redneck again.

“You okay, Elspeth?” shouted the older lady from the counter.

“Yeah, I guess,” said the younger. The two of them left, looking back at the Freelings as if perhaps the police ought to be called.

“I need a drink,” said Steve, and signaled the waitress.

He finished the beer quickly, neither of them talking. Then, in the cold light of the mercury lamps, they all walked out to the parking lot. Parked next to their station wagon was a battered blue pickup truck; sitting on the bumper of the truck was Taylor.

“What do
you
want?” Steve said suspiciously.

Taylor nodded toward the diner. “She told you the truth.”

“Who?” Diane came up quickly. “You mean those two women?”

“You in cahoots with that girl?” Steve accused angrily.

“I don’t cahoot with anyone.” Taylor smiled.

“Is that right? Then why are you following us?”

“I came to help.”

“We don’t want your damn help!” Steve exploded. “We don’t want anyone’s help! We just want to be left alone!” He was near hitting the man, just to have something to do.

Diane sensed this and wanted to defuse it before Steve got himself into something else he couldn’t handle. Besides, she felt an intuitive trust for this Taylor, and she was desperate to trust. “Steve, please . . . calm down now, honey . . .”

“Please what?” Steve clenched and unclenched his fists. “Maybe it’s no coincidence that this guy shows up when everything starts getting funny again.” Steve distrusted himself totally now, distrusted his ability to reason, to cope, to act, and so he naturally distrusted everyone else. “Now, get in the car, Diane.”

Diane spoke to Taylor, though. “Why did Tangina send you? Why didn’t she come herself?”

“My kind of job.” Taylor shrugged. “When you have a special problem, you call a specialist.”

“Diane, this is ridiculous,” Steve said in the staccato tone he used when he had to try to substitute the force of his voice for the force of conviction. “Now, come on—”

“Steve, let’s try to handle this sensibly,” Diane pressed.

“Sensibly!” he rasped. “What’s sensible about anything that’s happened? Nobody can help us, Diane.” This is how he felt—beyond help. “I want to get out of here—now.” His voice was taking on a surly edge.

“And go where?” Diane shouted, near her own breaking point. She knew Steve had nowhere to go. “Steve, it followed us here. It will follow us anywhere we go.” She squeezed his arm to make him understand. “We can’t keep running.”

Steve looked up to see Carol Anne, Robbie, and E. Buzz standing beside the impassive Taylor. They’d cast their votes. And their sad faces bespoke an eloquence Steve couldn’t answer, for all his anger and shame.

Ninety minutes later, in the gray hour of the wolf, they stood once more in their own front yard, staring mutely, uncertainly, at the big family house on Grover Lane.

The haunted house.

They sat on the front lawn as the sun came up and for another hour besides as Taylor went through the house, room by room—to explore, to sense, to fathom.

The living room felt safe at its core, though its closets twisted back into bottomless unknowns. The kitchen was warm, the dining room neutral. Upstairs he was drawn to Jess’s room: clear, untroubled. He closed his eyes and envisioned the spirit who had resided here: it was the woman he’d seen beyond the Canyon of Shadows, the woman who’d gone into the Light—the one who’d wanted to protect the young girl. Taylor instantly understood that this woman’s presence, in life,
had
protected the young girl. Now, with her spirit gone Beyond, the girl was in danger. This was the reason the Beast had been able to enter the house.

He checked out the bathroom—a dangerous place, full of omens. He walked into the master bedroom: a trace of evil lingered here, as if the Thing had recently been by and left its scent.

He almost lost his balance on entering the children’s room—it reeked that much.

The children’s room was obviously where the Evil One had made its lair.

Finally he walked around the back yard, around the garden. This was the center of harmony of the house, the place where the patterns were unmarred. He walked under an arbor of grapes and let its serene beauty give him sustenance. Here he would make his camp.

When he returned to the front yard again, to the Freelings, he was smiling—this house wasn’t clean, but it was defensible.

E. Buzz barked happily at him, wagging his tail.

“It’s okay?” said Diane, standing up. “You’re sure?”

“E. Buzz agrees.” Taylor smiled. “It’s okay for now.”

Everyone entered the house except Steve and Taylor. Steve was skeptical.

“Great.” He nodded. “The
dog
agrees. That’s terrific.”

Taylor understood that Steve had to feel superior in some way, and he didn’t mind being a laughingstock for a while. It was good to laugh. The man did well to keep in practice.

Still, Taylor could see he would have to do much to help this man in spite of himself, until the man’s spirit awoke.

“Your car . . .” said Taylor tentatively.

“Yeah?” said Steve.

“It’s very angry.”

“Uh-huh,” said Steve.

“I’ll fix it,” Taylor volunteered.

“Make it happy?” Steve goaded.

“Uh-huh.” Taylor smiled.

They were humoring each other.

After about an hour of phone calls, Diane finally succeeded in tracking down Tangina Barrons at a boardinghouse in Hollywood.

She had let the phone ring about ten times, actually, and was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered, speaking Spanish.

“Oh . . . I’m sorry . . .” said Diane. “I must have the wrong number.” Then, on a second thought: “Is . . . Tangina Barrons there?”

“
Momento
,” said the voice, followed by a rhythmic scrape-and-silence for a minute—Diane could almost see the receiver dangling from a wall phone in a dark corridor, swinging slowly back and forth, brushing the wall at the end of each pass.