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  He hesitated before the conclusion, as he had when first drafting it four nights ago. On the other side of the window pane the sky was already smoking over with a fine mist, turning rapidly from the color of arterial blood to a dead slate gray. The sea rushed and drubbed at the coastline a mile to the west, shaking and steadily eroding the bedrock upon which his town was built; the vibrations which reached the glass membrane next to him were like the rhythms of a buried human heart.

  There is one more thing. I have a very important question to ask you, I hope you don't mind. It is a simple thing (to you) and I'm sure you could answer it. You might say I should ask someone else but the truth is I don't know anyone else who could help. What I know isn't enough. I thought it would be but it isn't. It seems to me that the things we learned up until now, the really important things, and I can tell we've had many of the same experiences (the Sixties, etc.), when it came time to live them, the system balked. And we're dying. But don't worry, I'm a fighter. I learned a long time ago: never give up.

  I live in my parents' old house now, so we could have plenty of privacy. In my opinion we could help each other very much. My number is 474-2841. If I'm not here I'll be at the Blue & White (corner of Rosetta and Damietta), that is where I work, anybody can tell you where to find it. I hope to hear from you at your earliest convenience.

  Meanwhile, I'm waiting with bated breath for your book of essays, OTHER CEDENTS, they mentioned it on "Wake Up, America" and I can hardly wait! If you care to let me read the manuscript prior to publication I promise to return it by Express Mail in perfect condition. (Just asking, hint hint.) In any event please come by for a visit on your next trip to the West Coast. I hope you will take me up on it sometime (soon!), I really need the answer. We Horror Fans have to stick together. As you said in your Introduction to NIGHTMARE TERRITORY, "It may be a long time till morning, but there's no law against talking in the dark.”

  Faithfully Yours,

  VICTOR RIPON

  He sat back. He breathed in, out. It was the first breath he had been aware of taking for several minutes. The view from the window was no longer clear. A blanket of fog had descended to shroud all evidence of life outside his room. The puppies next door had quieted, resigned to their fate. Still a hopeful smile played at the corners of his mouth. He stacked and folded the pages to fit the already-stamped envelope. There. Now there wasn't anything to do but wait.

  He stretched expansively, hearing his joints pop like dry bones, and his fingernails touched the window. So early, and yet the glass was chillingly brittle, ready to shatter under the slightest provocation.

  With any luck he wouldn't have long to wait at all.

  The days shrank as the season contracted, drawing inward against the approaching winter. Trees bared stiffening limbs, scraped the sky and etched patterns of stars as sharp and cold as diamond dust above the horizon. Victor got out his old Army jacket. The main house became dank and tomblike, magnifying the creaking of dry-rotted timbers. He took to sleeping in the guest cabin, though the small portable heater kept him tight and shivering night after night.

  He pressed bravely ahead with his story, the outlines and preliminary versions of which by now filled two thick notebooks, reorganizing, redrafting and obsessively repolishing lines and paragraphs with a jeweler's precision.

  But it was not good enough.

  He wanted the pages to sing with ideas that had once seemed so important to him, all and everything he knew, and yet they did not, and no amount of diligence was able to bring them to life. The story came to be a burden and weighed more heavily in his hands each time he lifted it out of the drawer. After a few weeks he was reluctant to open the desk at all.

  He stayed in bed more and slept less, dragging himself up for work each day only at the last possible minute. Nothing except Rex Christian's books held any interest for him now, and he had read them all so many times he believed he knew them by heart, almost as well as his own stillborn effort. Channel 56 exhausted its library of late-night movies and sold out to a fundamentalist religious sect peddling fire and brimstone. The nights lengthened and the long winter closed around him.

  Each day, he thought, I die a little. I must. I get out of bed, don’t I?

  Mornings he walked the two miles along the creek into town, reexamining the last few years like beads to be memorized in his pocketed fists before they slipped away forever. He walked faster, but his life only seemed to recede that much more swiftly across the dunes and back to the sea. He could neither hold onto nor completely forget how things had once been. Whether or not they had ever truly been the way he remembered them was not the point. The spell of the past, his past, real or imagined, had settled over him like the shadow of giant wings, and he could not escape.

  He submerged himself in his work at the shop, a space he rented for small appliance repair behind the Blue & White Diner, but that was not enough, either. For a time he tried to tell himself that nothing else mattered. But it was an evasion. You can run, he thought, but, you can’t hide. Rex Christian had taught him that.

  Some days he would have traded anything he owned and all that he had ever earned to wake up one more time with the special smell of her on his pillow—just that, no matter whether he ever actually set eyes on her again. Other days his old revenge fantasies got the better of him. But all that was real for him now was the numbness of more and more hours at the shop, struggling to penetrate the inner workings of what others paid him to fix, the broken remnants of households which had fallen apart suddenly, without warning or explanation.

  When not busy at work, the smallest of rewards kept him going. The weekly changes of program at the local movie theater, diverting but instantly forgettable; the specialties of the house at the Blue & White, prepared for him by the new waitress, whose name turned out to be Jolene; and Jolene herself when business was slow and there was nowhere else to go. She catered to him without complaint, serving something, perhaps, behind his eyes that he thought he had put to rest long ago. He was grateful to her for being there. But he could not repay her in kind. He did not feel it, could not even if he had wanted to.

  By late December he had almost given up hope.

  The weekends were the worst. He had to get out, buttoned against the cold, though the coffee in town was never hot enough and the talk after the movies was mindless and did not nourish. But he could bear the big house no longer, and even the guest cabin had begun to enclose him like a vault.

  This Saturday night, the last week before Christmas, the going was painfully slow. Steam expanded from his mouth like ectoplasm. He turned up his collar against an icy offshore wind. There were sand devils in the road, a halo around the ghost of a moon which hung over his shoulder and paced him relentlessly. At his side, to the north, dark reeds rustled and scratched the old riverbank with a sound of rusted blades. He stuffed his hands deeper into his jacket and trudged on toward the impersonal glow of the business district.

  The neon above the Blue & White burned coolly in the darkness.

  The nightlife in Gezira, such as it was—Siamese silhouettes of couples cruising for burgers, clutches of frantic teenagers on their way to or from the mall—appeared undiscouraged by the cold. If anything the pedestrians scissoring by seemed less inhibited than ever, pumping reserves of adrenaline and huffing wraiths of steam as if their last-minute shopping mattered more than anything else in this world. The bubble machine atop a police car revolved like a deranged Christmas tree light. Children giggled obscenities and fled as a firecracker resounded between lampposts; it might have been a gunshot. The patrol car spun out, burning rubber, and screeched past in the wrong direction.

  He took a breath, opened the door to the diner and ducked inside.

  The interior was clean and bright as a hospital cafeteria. A solitary pensioner dawdled at the end of the counter, spilling coffee as he cradled a cup in both hands. Twin milkshake glasses, both empty, balanced near the edge. As Victor entered, jangling the bell, the waitress
glanced up. She saw him and beamed.

  "Hi!"

  "Hi, yourself."

  "I'll be a few more minutes. Do you mind? The night girl just called. She's gonna be late." Jolene watched him as she cleaned off the tables, trying to read his face as if it were the first page of a test. Her eyes flicked nervously between his.

  "Take your time," he said. He drew off his gloves and shuffled up to the counter. "No hurry."

  "The movie—?"

  "We won't miss anything."

  She blinked at him. "But I thought the last show—"

  "It starts," he said, "when we get there."

  "Oh." She finished the tables, clearing away the remains of what other people could not finish. "I see," she said. "Are—are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, you don't sound like it." She looked at him as if she wanted to smooth his hair, take his temperature, enfold him in her big arms and stroke his head. Instead she wiped her hands and tilted her face quizzically, keeping her distance. "How about something to eat?"

  "Just coffee," he said. "My stomach's…" He sought the precise word; it eluded him. He gave up. "It’s not right."

  "Again?"

  "Again." He tried a smile. It came out wrong. "Sorry. Maybe next time."

  She considered the plate which she had been keeping warm on the grill. It contained a huge portion of fried shrimp, his favorite. She sighed.

  The door jingled and a tall man came in. He was dressed like a logger or survivalist from up north, with plaid shirt, hiking boots, full beard and long hair. Victor decided he had never seen him before, though something about the man was vaguely familiar.

  Jolene dealt out another set-up of flatware. He didn't need a menu. He knew what he wanted.

  Victor considered the man, remembering the sixties. That could be me, he thought; I could have gone that way, too, if I had had the courage. And look at him. He's better off. He doesn't have any attachments to shake. He opted out a long time ago, and now there's nothing to pull him down.

  Jolene set the man's order to cooking and returned to Victor.

  "It won't be long," she said. "I promise." She gestured at the old Zenith portable next to the cash register. "You want the TV on?"

  She needed to do something for him, Victor realized. She needed to. "Sure," he said agreeably. "Why not?"

  She flicked a knob.

  The nightly episode of a new religious game show, You Think That’s Heavy? was in progress. In each segment a downtrodden soul from the audience was brought onstage and led up a ramp through a series of possible solutions, including a mock employment bureau, a bank loan office, a dating service, a psychiatric clinic and, finally, when all else had failed, a preacher with shiny cheeks and an unnatural preoccupation with hair. Invariably this last station of the journey was the one that took. Just now a poor woman with three children and a husband who could not support them was sobbing her way to the top of the hill.

  I hope to God she finds what she needs, Victor thought absently. She looks like she deserves it. Of course you can't tell. They're awfully good at getting sympathy….

  But someone will come down and set things right for her, sooner or later. She'll get what she deserves, and it will be right as rain. I believe that.

  But what about the kids? They're the ones I’m worried about….

  At that moment the door to the diner rang open and several small children charged in, fresh from a spree on the mall, clutching a few cheap toys and a bag of McDonald's french fries. They spotted the big man in the red plaid shirt and ran to him, all stumbles and hugs. The man winked at Jolene, shrugged and relocated to a corner booth.

  "Whadaya gonna do?" he said helplessly. "I reckon I gotta feed 'em, right?"

  "I'll get the children's menus," said Jolene.

  "You got any chili dogs?" said the man. "We came a long way. Don't have a whole lot left to spend. Is that okay?"

  "Give them the shrimp," suggested Victor. "I can't handle it."

  Jolene winked back. "I think we can come up with something," she said.

  The pensioner observed the children warily. Who could say what they might have brought in with them? He obviously did not want to find out. His hands shook, spilling more coffee. It ran between his fingers as if his palms had begun to bleed.

  Well, thought Victor, maybe I was wrong. Look at the big guy now. He can't run away from it, either. But it could be he doesn't want to. He's got them, and they'll stick by him no matter what. Lucky, I guess. What's his secret?

  Out on the sidewalk passersby hurried on their way, a look of expectation and dread glazing their eyes. Victor picked up his coffee. It was almost hot enough to taste.

  There was another burst of ringing.

  He braced himself, not knowing what to expect. He scanned the doorway.

  But this time it was not a customer. It was the telephone.

  Jolene reached across the counter, pushing dirty dishes out of the way. One of the milkshake glasses teetered and smashed to the floor. At the end of the counter, the pensioner jumped as though the Spirit of Christmas Past had just lain its withered fingers on the back of his neck.

  "What?" Jolene balanced the receiver. "I'm sorry, there's so much—yes. I said yes. Hold on." She passed the phone to Victor. "It's for you," she said.

  "It is?"

  "Sure is," she said. "I can't tell if it's a—"

  "Yes?"

  "Victor?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Vic!" said the reedy voice on the line. "Great to get ahold of you, finally! This is Rex. Rex Christian!"

  "Really?" said Victor, stunned.

  "Yup. Look, I'll be passing through your town in about, oh, say an hour. I was just wondering. Are you free tonight, by any chance?"

  "Uh, sure, Re…"

  "Don't say my name!"

  "Okay," said Victor.

  "I'm on my way from a meeting in San Francisco. Traveling incognito, you might say. You don't know how people can be if the word gets out. So I'd appreciate it if, you know, you don't let on who you're talking to. Understand?"

  "I understand." It must be hard, he thought, being a celebrity.

  "I knew you would."

  Victor cupped his hand around the mouthpiece. The old man from the end of the counter fumbled money from his coin purse and staggered out. Victor tried to say the right things. He wasn't ready. However, he remembered how to get to his own house. He gave directions from Highway 1, speaking as clearly and calmly as he could.

  "Who was that?" asked Jolene when he had hung up.

  "Nobody," said Victor.

  "What?"

  "A friend, I mean. He…"

  "He what?"

  "I’ve got to…meet him. I forgot."

  Her expression, held together until now by nervous anticipation, wilted before his eyes. The tension left her; her posture sagged. Suddenly she looked older, overweight, lumpen. He did not know what to say.

  He grabbed his gloves and made ready to leave. She smoothed her apron, head down, hiding a tic, and then made a great effort to face him. The smile was right but the lines were deeper than ever before.

  "Call me?" she said. "If you want to. It's up to you. I don't care."

  "Jolene…"

  "No, really! I couldn't take the cold tonight, anyway. I—I hope you have a nice meeting. I can tell it's important."

  "Business," he said. "You know."

  "I know."

  "I'm sorry."

  She forced a laugh. "What on earth for? Don't you worry."

  He nodded, embarrassed.

  "Take care of yourself," she said.

  You deserve better, he thought, than me, Jolene.

  "You, too," he said. "I didn't plan it this way. Please believe…"

  "I believe you. Now get going or you'll be late."

  He felt relieved. He felt awful. He felt woefully unprepared. But at least he felt something.

  All the way home the hidden river ran at his side, muffled by the reeds but n
o longer distant. This time he noticed that there were secret voices in the waters, talking to themselves and to each other, to the night with the tongues of wild children on their way back to the sea.

  Now he considered the possibility that they might be talking to him.

  Victor unlocked the old house and fired up the heater. He had little chance to clean. By the time he heard the car he was covered with a cold sweat, and his stomach, which he had neglected to feed, constricted in a hopeless panic.

  He parted the bathroom curtains.

  The car below was long and sleek. A limousine? No, but it was a late-model sedan, a full-size Detroit tank with fog lights.

  A man climbed out, lugging a briefcase, and made for the front of the house.

  Victor ran downstairs and flung open the door.

  He saw a child approaching in the moonlight. It was the same person he had seen leave the shadow of the car. From the upstairs window the figure had appeared deceptively foreshortened.

  The boy came into the circle of the porch light, sticking his chin out and grinning rows of pearly teeth.

  "Vic?"

  Victor was confused.

  Then he saw.

  It was not a child, after all.

  "I'm Rex Christian," said the dwarf, extending a stubby hand. "Glad to meet you!"

  The hand felt cold and compressed as a rubber ball in Victor's grip. He released it with an involuntary shudder. He cleared his throat.

  "Come on in. I…I've been expecting you."

  The visitor wobbled to an overstuffed chair and bounced up onto the cushion. His round-toed shoes jutted out in front of him.

  "So! This is where one of my biggest fans lives!"

  "I guess so," said Victor. "This is it."

  "Great! It's perfect!"

  On the stained wall, a grandfather clock sliced at the thick air.

  "Can I get you something?" Victor's own voice sounded hollow in his ears. "Like something to drink?"

  "I’d settle for a beer. Just one, though. I want to keep a clear head."

  Beer, thought Victor. Let me see… He couldn't think. He looked away. The small face, the monkey mouth were too much for him. He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.