Spangler stared at him icily in the glass. “There is a piece of friction tape in the upper left-hand corner. Did she crack it? For God’s sake, man, speak up!”
“You’re seeing the Reaper,” Carlin said. His voice was deadly and without passion.
“There’s no friction tape on the mirror. Put your hand over it… dear God.” Spangler wrapped the upper sleeve of his coat carefully around his hand, reached out, and pressed it gently against the mirror. “You see? Nothing supernatural. It’s gone. My hand covers it.”
“Covers it? Can you feel the tape? Why don’t you pull it off?” Spangler took his hand away carefully and looked into the glass. Everything in it seemed a little more distorted; the room’s odd angles seemed to yaw crazily as if on the verge of sliding off into some unseen eternity. There was no dark spot in the mirror. It was flawless. He felt a sudden unhealthy dread rise in him and despised himself for feeling it.
“It looked like him, didn’t it?” Carlin asked. Hi face was very pale, and he was looking directly at the floor. A muscle twitched spasmodically in his neck. “Admit it, Spangler.
It looked like a hooded figure standing behind you, didn’t it?”
“It looked like friction tape masking a short crack,” Spangler said very firmly. “Nothing more, nothing less—”
“The Bates boy was very husky,” Carlin said rapidly. His words seemed to drop into the hot, still atmosphere like stones into dark water. “Like a football player. He was wearing a letter sweater and dark green chinos. We were halfway to the upper-half exhibits when—”
“The heat is making me feel ill,” Spangler said a little unsteadily. He had taken out a handkerchief and was wiping his neck. His eyes searched the convex surface of the mirror in small, jerky movements.
“When he said he wanted a drink of water… a drink of water, for God’s sake!” Carlin turned and stared wildly at Spangler. “How was I to know? How was I to know?”
“Is there a lavatory? I think I’m going to —”
“His sweater… I just caught a glimpse of his sweater going down the stairs… then…”
“—be sick.” Carlin shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked at the floor again. “Of course. Third door on your left, second floor, as you go toward the stairs.” He looked up appealingly. “How was I to know!’ But Spangler had already stepped down onto the ladder. It rocked under his weight and for a moment Carlin thought—hoped—that he would fall. He didn’t. Through the open square in the floor Carlin watched him descend, holding his mouth lightly with one hand.
“Spangler—?” But he was gone.
Carlin listened to his footfalls fade to echoes, then die away. When they were gone, he shivered violently. He tried to move his own feet to the trapdoor, but they were frozen. Just that last, hurried glimpse of the boy’s sweater… God!…
It was as if huge invisible hands were pulling his head, forcing it up. Not wanting to look, Carlin stared into the glimmering depths of the Delver looking-glass.
There was nothing there.
The room was reflected back to him faithfully, its dusty confines transmuted into glimmering infinity. A snatch of a half-remembered Tennyson poem occurred to him, and he muttered it aloud: ” ‘I am half-sick of shadows,” said the Lady of Shalott…’ ” And still he could not look away, and the breathing stillness held him. From around one corner of the mirror a moth-eaten buffalo head peered at him with flat obsidian eyes.
The boy had wanted a drink of water and the fountain was in the first-floor lobby. He had gone downstairs and—And had never come back.
Ever.
Anywhere.
Like the duchess who had paused after primping before her glass for a soiree and decided to go back into the sitting room for her pearls. Like the rug-merchant who had gone for a carriage ride and had left behind him only an empty carriage and two closemouthed horses.
And the Delver glass had been in New York from 1897 until 1920, had been there when Judge Crater—Carlin stared as if hypnotized into the shallow depths of the mirror. Below, the blindeyed Adonis kept watch.
He waited for Spangler much like the Bates family must have waited for their son, much like the duchess’s husband must have waited for his wife to return from the sitting room. He stared into the mirror and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Nona
Do you love?
I hear her voice saying this—sometimes I still hear it. In my dreams. Do you love?
Yes, I answer. Yes—and true love will never die. Then I wake up screaming.
I don’t know how to explain it, even now. I can’t tell you why I did those things. I couldn’t do it at the trial, either. And there are a lot of people here who ask me about it. There’s a psychiatrist who does. But I am silent. My lips are sealed. Except here in my cell. Here I am not silent. I wake up screaming.
In the dream I see her walking toward me. She is wearing a white gown, almost transparent, and her expression is one of mingled desire and triumph. She comes to me across a dark room with a stone floor and I smell dry October roses. Her arms are held open and I go to her with mine out to enfold her.
I feel dread, revulsion, unutterable longing. Dread and revulsion because I know what this place is, longing because I love her. I will always love her. There are times when I wish there were still a death penalty in this state. A short walk down a dim corridor, a straight-backed chair fitted with a steel skullcap, clamps… then one quick jolt and I would be with her.
As we come together in the dream my fear grows, but it is impossible for me to draw back from her. My hands press against the smooth plane of her back, her skin near under silk.
She smiles with those deep, black eyes. Her head tilts up to mine and her lips part, ready to be kissed.
That’s when she changes, shrivels. Her hair grows coarse and matted, melting from black to an ugly brown that spills down over the creamy whiteness of her cheeks. The eyes shrink and go beady. The whites disappear and she is glaring at me with tiny eyes like two polished pieces of jet. The mouth becomes a maw through which crooked yellow teeth protrude.
I try to scream. I try to wake up.
I can’t. I’m caught again. I’ll always be caught.
I am in the grip of a huge, noisome graveyard rat. Lights sway in front of my eyes.
October roses. Somewhere a dead bell is chanting.
“Do you love?” this thing whispers. “Do you love?” The smell of roses is its breath as it swoops toward me, dead flowers in a charnel house.
“Yes,” I tell the rat-thing. “Yes—and true love will never die.” Then I do scream, and I am awake.
They think what we did together drove me crazy. But my mind is still working in some way or other, and I’ve never stopped looking for the answers. I still want to know how it was, and what it was.
They’ve let me have paper and a pen with a felt tip. I’m going to write everything down.
Maybe I’ll answer some of their questions and maybe while I’m doing that I can answer some of my own. And when I’m done, there’s something else. Something they don’t know I have.
Something I took. It’s here under my mattress. A knife from the prison dining hall.
I’ll have to start by telling you about Augusta.
As I write this it is night, a fine August night poked through with blazing stars. I can see them through the mesh of my window, which overlooks the exercise yard and a slice of sky I can block out with two fingers. It’s hot, and I’m naked except for my shorts. I can hear the soft summer sound of frogs and crickets. But I can bring back winter just by closing my eyes. The bitter cold of that night, the bleakness, the hard, unfriendly lights of a city that was not my city. It was the fourteenth of February.
See, I remember everything.
And look at my arms—covered with sweat, they’ve pulled into gooseflesh.
Augusta…
When I got to Augusta I was more dead than alive, it was that cold. I had picked a fine day to say good-bye to the college scene and hitchhike west; it looked like I might freeze to death before I got out of the state.
A cop had kicked me off the interstate ramp and threatened to bust me if he caught me thumbing there again. I was almost tempted to wise mouth him and let him do it. The flat, fourlane stretch of highway had been like an airport landing strip, the wind whooping and pushing membranes of powdery snow skirling along the concrete. And to the anonymous Them behind their Saf-T-Glas windshields, everyone standing in the breakdown lane on a dark night is either a rapist or a murderer, and if he’s got long hair you can throw in child molester and faggot on top.