NOS4A2(93)

Vic stood and watched it, and as the car came forward, shedding the fog, she could not say she was entirely surprised. She had sent him to jail, and she had read his obituary, but some part of her had been waiting to see Charlie Manx and his Rolls-Royce again for her entire adult life.

The Wraith slid out of the mist, a black sleigh tearing through a cloud and dragging tails of December frost behind it. December frost in July. The roiling white smoke boiled away from the license plate, old, dented, rust-shot: NOS4A2.

Vic let go of the bike, and it fell with a great crash. The mirror on the left handlebar exploded in a pretty spray of silver splinters.

She turned and ran.

The split-rail fence was on her left, and she reached it in two steps and jumped onto it. She made the top cross-tie when she heard the car lunging up the embankment behind her, and she jumped and landed on the lawn and took one more step, and then the Wraith went through the fence.

A log helicoptered through the air, whup-whup-whup, and nailed her across the shoulders. She was slammed off her feet and over the edge of the world, dropped into a bottomless chasm, fell into cold, roiling smoke without end.





The Lake House


THE WRAITH STRUCK THE FENCE OF SKINNED POLES, AND WAYNE WAS flung off the rear seat and onto the floor. His teeth banged together with a sharp clack.

Logs snapped and flew. One of them made a clobbering sound, drumming against the hood. In Wayne’s mind that was the sound of his mother’s body hitting the car, and he began to scream.

Manx thumped the car into park and turned on the seat to face the Gasmask Man.

“I do not want him to have to watch any of this,” Manx said. “Seeing your dog die in the road is pitiful enough. Will you put him to sleep for me, Bing? Anyone can see he has exhausted himself.”

“I ought to help you with the woman.”

“Thank you, Bing. That is very thoughtful. No, I have her well in hand.”

The car rocked as the men climbed out.

Wayne struggled to his knees, lifted his head to look over the front seat, through the window, and into the yard.

Charlie Manx had that silver mallet in one hand and was coming around the front of the car. Wayne’s mother was flat on the grass amid a scattering of logs.

The back left-hand door opened, and the Gasmask Man climbed in next to Wayne. Wayne lunged to his right, trying to get to the other door, but the Gasmask Man caught his arm and pulled him over beside him.

In one hand he had a little blue aerosol can. It said GINGERSNAP SPICE AIR FRESHENER on the side and showed a woman pulling a pan of gingerbread men out of an oven.

“I’ll tell you about this stuff right here,” the Gasmask Man said. “It may say Gingersnap Spice, but what it really smells like is bedtime. You get a mouthful of this, it’ll knock you into next Wednesday.”

“No!” Wayne cried. “Don’t!”

He flapped, like a bird with one wing nailed to a wooden board. He wasn’t flying anywhere.

“Oh, I won’t,” the Gasmask Man said. “You bit me, you little shit. How do you know I don’t have AIDS? You could have it. You could have a big, dirty mouthful of my AIDS now.”

Wayne looked over the front seat, through the windshield, into the yard. Manx was pacing around behind Wayne’s mother, who still hadn’t moved.

“I ought to bite you back, you know,” the Gasmask Man said. “I ought to bite you twice, once for what you did and once more for your dirty dog. I could bite you in your pretty little face. You have a face like a pretty little girl, but it wouldn’t be so pretty if I bit your cheek out and spit it on the floor. But we’re just going to sit here instead. We’re just going to sit here and watch the show. You watch and see what Mr. Manx does with dirty whores who tell dirty lies. And after he’s done with her . . . after he’s done, it’ll be my turn. And I’m not half so nice as Mr. Manx.”

His mother moved her right hand, opening and closing her fingers, making a loose fist. Wayne felt something unclench inside him. It was as if someone had been standing on his chest and had just stepped off, giving him his first chance in who knew how long to inhale fully. Not dead. Not dead. She was not dead.

She swept the hand back and forth, gently, as if feeling in the grass for something she had dropped. She moved her right leg, bending it at the knee. It looked like she wanted to try to get up.

Manx bent over her with that enormous silver hammer of his, lifted it, and brought it down. Wayne had never heard bones break before. Manx struck her in the left shoulder, and Wayne heard it pop, like a knothole exploding in a campfire. The force of the blow drove her back down onto her belly.

He screamed for her. He screamed with all the air in his lungs and shut his eyes and lowered his head—

And the Gasmask Man grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back. Something metal smashed Wayne in the mouth. The Gasmask Man had clubbed him in the face with the can of Gingersnap Spice.

“You open your eyes and watch,” the Gasmask Man said.

Wayne’s mother moved her right hand, trying to lift herself up, crawl away, and Manx hit her again. Her spine shattered with a sound like someone jumping on a stack of china plates.

“Pay attention,” the Gasmask Man said. He was breathing so hard it was steaming up the inside of his mask. “We’re just getting to the good part.”