A Nest of Nightmares Page 11

  ‘Martin Hoskins laughed harshly. “You ask me to run from something I do not believe in! Well, I tell you this: I believe in storms, but I do not run from them. I’m strong; what can that spirit do to me?”

  ‘The Indian shook his head sorrowfully. “I cannot say what it may do. I only know that you will offend it by dwelling where it dwells, and the more you offend it, the more certainly will it destroy you. Do not try to farm there, nor keep animals. That land knows only one master and will not take to another. There is only one law, and one master on that land. You must serve it, or leave.”

  ‘ “I serve no master but myself – and my God,” Martin said.’

  Marilyn closed the book, not wanting to read of Martin’s inevitable, and terrible, end. He kept animals, she thought idly. What if he had been a farmer? How would the spirit of the land have destroyed him then?

  She looked out the window and saw with relief that the children were playing. They’ve finally given up their hunt, she thought, and wondered what they were playing now. Were they playing follow-the-leader? Dancing like Indians? Or horses, she thought, suddenly, watching their prancing feet and tossing heads. They were playing horses.

  Marilyn woke suddenly, listening. Her body strained forward, her heart pounding too loudly, her mouth dry. She heard it again: the wild, mad cry of a horse. She had heard it before in the night, but never so close, and never so human-sounding.

  Marilyn got out of bed, shivering violently as her feet touched the cold, bare floor and the chilly air raised bumps on her naked arms. She went to the window, drew aside the curtains, and looked out.

  The night was still and as clear as an engraving. The moon lacked only a sliver more for fullness and shone out of a cloudless, star-filled sky. A group of small figures danced upon the snowy ground, jerking and prancing and kicking up a spray of snow. Now and again one of them would let out a shrill cry: half a horse’s neigh, half a human wail. Marilyn felt her hairs rise as she recognised the puppet-like dancers below: the children.

  She was tempted to let the curtains fall back and return to bed – to say nothing, to do nothing, to act as if nothing unusual had happened. But these were her children now, and she wasn’t allowed that sort of irresponsibility.

  The window groaned as she forced it open, and at the faint sound the children stopped their dance. As one, they turned and looked up at Marilyn.

  The breath stopped in her throat as she stared down at their upturned faces. Everything was very still, as if that moment had been frozen within a block of ice. Marilyn could not speak; she could not think of what to say.

  She withdrew back into the room, letting the curtains fall back before the open window, and she ran to the bed.

  ‘Derek,’ she said, catching hold of him. ‘Derek, wake up.’ She could not stop her trembling.

  His eyes moved behind their lids.

  ‘Derek,’ she said urgently.

  Now they opened and, fogged with sleep, looked at her.

  ‘What is it, love?’ He must have seen the fear in her face, for he pushed himself up on his elbows. ‘Did you have a bad dream?’

  ‘Not a dream, no. Derek, your Uncle Martin – he could have lived here if he hadn’t been a master himself. If he hadn’t kept horses. The horses turned on him because they had found another master.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The spirit that lives in this land,’ she said. She was not trembling, now. Perspiration beaded her forehead. ‘It uses the . . . the servants, or whatever you want to call them . . . it can’t abide anyone else ruling here. If we . . .’

  ‘You’ve been dreaming, sweetheart.’ He tried to pull her down beside him, but she shook him off. She could hear them on the stairs.

  ‘Is our door locked?’ she suddenly demanded.

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Derek frowned. ‘Did you hear something? I thought . . .’

  ‘Children are a bit like animals, don’t you think? At least, people treat them as if they were – adults, I mean. I suppose children must . . .’

  ‘I do hear something. I’d better go – ’

  ‘Derek – No – ’

  The doorknob rattled and there was a great pounding at the door.

  ‘Who is that?’ Derek said loudly.

  ‘The children,’ Marilyn whispered.

  The door splintered and gave way before Derek reached it, and the children burst through. There were so many of them, Marilyn thought, as she waited on the bed. And all she could seem to see was their strong, square teeth.

  THE OTHER MOTHER

  Across the lake, on the other shore, something moved: pale-white, glimmering. Tall as a person.

  Sara looked up from her work, refocusing her eyes. She realised how dark it had become. It had been too dark, in the rapidly deepening twilight, to paint for the last half-hour, but she had been reluctant to admit it, give up, and go in.

  There, again. A woman in a white gown? Gone again.

  Sara frowned, vexed, and concentrated on the brushy land across the narrow expanse of dark water. She waited, listening to the crickets and frogs, and she stared so intently that the growing shadows merged, reforming in strange shapes. What had she really seen? Had that pale glimmer been a trick of the fading light? Why did she feel as if there was a stranger lurking on the other shore, a woman watching her who would let herself be seen only in glimpses?

  Sara realised she was tired. She arched her back and exercised her aching arms. She still watched the other shore, but casually now, hoping to lure the stranger out by seeming inattentiveness.

  But she saw nothing more and at last she shrugged and began to tighten lids on tubes of paint, putting her supplies away. She deliberately avoided looking at the painting she had been working on. Already she disliked it, and was annoyed with herself for failing again.

  The house was stifling after the balmy evening air, and it reeked of the pizza she had given the children for dinner. They had left chunks of it uneaten on the coffee table and were now sprawled on the floor in front of the television set, absorbed in a noisy situation comedy.

  ‘Hello, sweethearts,’ Sara said.

  Michael gave a squirming shrug and twitched his mouth in what might have been a greeting; Melanie did not move. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes followed the tiny moving images intently.

  Sara put her painting and supplies back in her bedroom and then began to clean up the leftover pizza and soft drinks, wanting to turn off the set and reclaim her children, but too aware of the tantrums that would ensue if she interrupted a program.

  At the next commercial, to catch their attention, Sara said, ‘I just saw a ghost across the lake.’

  Michael sat up and turned to his mother, his expression intrigued but wary. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, it looked like a ghost,’ Sara said. ‘You want to come with me and see if she’s still there?’

  ‘Not she, ghosts aren’t girls,’ Michael said. But he scrambled to his feet. Melanie was still watching the set: a domestic squabble over coffee.

  ‘Why can’t ghosts be girls?’ Sara asked. ‘Come on, Melanie. We’re going outside to look for a ghost.’

  ‘They just can’t be,’ Michael said. ‘Come on.’

  Sara took hold of Melanie’s sticky little hand and led her outside after Michael. Outdoors, Michael suddenly halted and looked around. ‘Did you really see a ghost?’

  ‘I saw something,’ Sara said. She felt relieved to be outside again, away from the stale, noisy house. ‘I saw a pale white figure which glided past. When I looked more closely, it was gone. Vanished, just like that.’

  ‘Sounds like a ghost,’ said Michael. ‘They float around, and they’re all white, and they disappear. Did it make a noise?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. What sort of noise does a ghost make?’

  Michael began to produce a l
ow moaning sound, gradually building in intensity and volume.

  ‘Mommy, make him stop!’ Melanie said suddenly.

  ‘That’s enough, Michael.’

  They had reached the water’s edge and they were quiet as they looked across the dark water. Almost nothing could be seen now of the opposite shore.

  ‘Did you really see a ghost?’ Michael asked, yet again. Sara felt his hand touching her blue-jeaned hip.

  She put an arm around his shoulder and hugged him close. ‘Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was an animal of some kind. I just saw something from the corner of my eye, and I had the impression that it was, well, a woman in a long white gown, moving more quickly and quietly than any living person should. I felt she wasn’t ready to let me really see her yet. So when I tried to find her, she had disappeared.’

  Sara felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle and was suddenly ashamed of herself. If she had made herself nervous, what must the children be feeling?

  Melanie began to whimper for the light.

  ‘She can’t turn the light on here – we’re outside, stupid,’ Michael said. Sara suspected a quaver in his voice.

  ‘Come on, kids. There’s nothing out here. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you a story before you go to bed.’

  Michael broke into a run toward the safe harbour of the lighted house, and Melanie let go of her mother’s hand to chase him.

  Sara turned to follow her children but then paused, feeling that she was being watched. She turned and looked back across the lake. But even if someone were standing on the opposite shore, it was now much too dark to see.

  After the children had bathed and were in their pajamas, Sara told a story about a tricycle-riding bear, a character both the children loved, but which Michael was beginning to outgrow.

  Melanie was good about going to bed, snuggling sleepily under the bedclothes and raising her round, sweet face for a good-night kiss.

  ‘Now a butterfly kiss,’ Melanie commanded, after exchanging several smacking kisses with her mother.

  Sara, kneeling by the bed, bent her head and fluttered her eyelashes against her daughter’s downy cheek. The sound of Melanie’s sleepy giggle, her warmth, the good, clean smell of her inspired a rush of love, and Sara wanted to grab her daughter and hug her suffocatingly tight. But she only whispered, soft as a breath, ‘I love you, sweetie,’ before she drew away.

  Michael was waiting for her in his room with a deck of cards. They played two games of Go Fish and one of Crazy Eights before his uncontrollable yawns gave him away. He agreed to go to bed, but insisted upon hearing a story first.

  ‘A short one,’ Sara said.

  ‘A ghost story,’ he responded, nodding impatiently.

  ‘Oh, Michael,’ Sara sighed, envisioning nightmares and demands for comfort later.

  ‘Yes. A ghost story. About that ghost you saw across the lake today.’

  Had she frightened him? Sara couldn’t be sure. But this was her opportunity to make up for what she’d done, to remove the menace and the mystery of that unseen figure. She tucked him under the covers and settled herself at the end of his bed, and then, in a low voice, began to weave a comforting sort of ghost story.

  The ghost was a sad but friendly figure, a mother eternally searching for her children. They had run off into the wilderness one day without telling her and had become lost, and she had been looking for them ever since. The story had the moral that children shouldn’t disobey their mothers or run and hide without telling her where they were going.

  Michael was still too young to protest against stories with morals; he accepted what he was told, smiling sleepily, and gave his mother a warm hug and kiss goodnight.

  But if Sara had protected Michael against nightmares, she was unable to protect herself.

  That night Sara dreamed of a woman in white, gliding along the lake shore, heading toward the house. She was not a ghost; neither was she human. Her eyes were large, round, and protruding, like huge, milk-white marbles. The skin of her face was greyish, her mouth narrow, her nose almost nonexistent. She wore a long, hooded, all­-enveloping gown.

  Sara saw then that Michael and Melanie were playing in the yard, unaware of the ghastly figure gliding steadily toward them.

  Where is their mother? Sara wondered. Where am I? She could only watch helplessly, powerless to interfere, certain that she was about to see her children murdered before her eyes.

  Dreaming, Sara sweated and twitched and finally cried out, waking herself.

  She sat up in the dark, hot room, feeling her heart pounding. Only a dream. But she was still frightened. Somewhere in the darkness those dead white eyes might be staring at her.

  Sara turned on the light, wishing for comfort. She wanted a lover, or even her ex-husband, some male figure whose solid, sleeping presence would comfort her.

  What a baby I am, she thought, getting up and putting on her robe. To be so frightened by a dream. To have to make the rounds of the house to be sure everything is normal.

  Michael was sleeping on his back, the covers kicked away, breathing through his mouth. Sara found his snores endearing and paused to pull the sheet up to his waist.

  As she reached the doorway to Melanie’s room, something white flashed by the window. Sara stopped breathing, feeling cold to the bone. Then she saw the bird. It was just a white bird, resting on the window ledge. A second later it had flown away. Sara felt weak with relief and annoyed with herself for overreacting. Just a bird at the window, a white bird.

  Melanie was sleeping soundly, curled into a ball, her fists beneath her chin. Sara stood beside the bed looking down at her for a long time. How infinitely precious she was.

  The next morning the children were particularly obnoxious. They were up early, spilling milk and cereal on the floor, slapping each other, fighting over television programs, complaining of boredom and asking questions without pausing to hear the answers. Their high-pitched voices repeating childish demands affected Sara like a cloud of stinging insects. Her skin itched. She felt raw and old, almost worn out with the effort of keeping a lid on her anger.

  Sara suggested new games and answered questions in a level voice. She cleaned up their messes and promised the children ice-cream cones at Baskin-Robbins if they were good and quiet in the car and in the grocery store. They were neither good nor quiet, but she bought them the ice cream anyway, to avert a worse outburst. She longed for Thursday, when a neighbor would take Michael into town for a birthday party, and looked toward Sunday – when the children’s father would have them both all day – as to her hope of heaven.

  After lunch Melanie blessedly fell asleep, and Michael occupied himself quietly with his plastic dinosaurs. Almost holding her breath for fear the spell of peace would be broken, Sara went to get her canvas.

  But at the sight of it her tentatively building spirits plunged. The painting she had spent so much time on the previous day was dreadful, laboured, flat, and uninspired. She had done better in high school. There was nothing to be done about it, Sara decided. She had done too much to it already. She would wait for it to dry and paint over it with gesso. She felt despairing of all the time she had wasted – not only yesterday, but all the years before that in which she had not found time to paint. Perhaps it was too late now; perhaps she had lost whatever talent she once had.

  But she would lose this afternoon, too, if she didn’t snap out of it. Sara turned the canvas to the wall and looked around. Watercolours, perhaps. Something quick and simple, something to loosen her up. She had been too stiff, intimidated by the oils and canvas. She would have to work up to them.

  ‘Can we go to a movie tonight?’ Michael asked as she emerged from her room with the big, spiral-bound pad of heavy paper and her box of watercolours. He was marching a blue dinosaur across the kitchen table and through the fruit bowl.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Sara said absentl
y.

  ‘What does that mean? Does that mean yes?’

  ‘It means we’ll see when the time comes.’

  ‘What will we see? Will we see a movie?’ He followed her outside.

  ‘Michael, don’t pester me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  There was a new tone to his voice. Sara turned to look. He was staring in the direction of the lake, astonished. ‘Is that the ghost?’

  Recalling her dream, Sara felt a chill. Shading her eyes against the sun, she peered across the lake. She saw a large white animal walking on the farther shore, too oddly shaped to be a dog, too small for a cow.

  ‘It’s a pig,’ Sara said. She had never seen such a large, white pig before, and she wondered where it had come from. What was somebody’s prize pig doing loose?

  The pig had stopped its purposeful walk and turned toward the water to face them. Now it stood still and seemed to watch them. Sara took an involuntary step backward, her arm moving down and to the side as if to shield Michael.

  ‘It sees us,’ he said. Sara couldn’t tell from his voice if he was frightened, pleased, or merely commenting.

  ‘It can’t get to us,’ Sara said. ‘There’s all that water in between.’ She spoke to comfort herself. She had never heard that pigs were dangerous, but it was a very large animal, and there was something uncanny about it, about the way it stood watching them.

  Then, just as abruptly as it had come, the pig turned away from the water and began to trot away, following the shoreline until it was out of sight.

  Sara was relieved to see it go.

  That night, Sara painted. She got out her oils and a new canvas; she felt inspired. She was excited; she hadn’t felt like this in years. The picture had come to her, a vision she felt bound to paint. She was in no mood for sketches or exercises, or ‘loosening up’ with watercolours. This was her real work, and she needed no more training.

  The main figures in the painting would be a large white pig and a shrouded human figure. Sara hoped to express some of the terror she’d felt during her nightmare, and to recapture in the painting the unease she had felt upon seeing the pig on the shore in the midday sun. She planned to keep the robed figure’s face hidden, fearful of painting something merely grotesque instead of terrifying.