Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

LINDA KNEW IT WOULD BE THERE. SINCE THE THING first appeared to her, she had developed a special sensitivity; she didn’t have to see it now, to know it was coming. It was a tension in her very bones, like fear, a stench like the foulness of decay. But familiarity did not breed contempt, or acceptance. Every time she saw it, the feeling was worse. She would have stood there, frozen, if Michael had not pushed her into the house and slammed the door.

Two inches of wood were a frail barrier against the thing in the garden. But it seemed to cut off some of the aura of terror that enveloped it. Only then did she realize the enormous importance of what had happened.

“You saw it,” she gasped. “Oh, God, oh, God-you saw it!”

“I saw it.” His voice was queer; she thought that the emotion that made it shake was fear, until he went on, “God forgive me. I thought you were imagining it.”

He caught her to him, holding her so tightly that breathing was an effort. For a long moment she stood quiescent in his arms, recognizing the impulse for what it was, a desire untouched by ordinary physical passion. She felt it too-the reassurance of contact with another living human body.

“You’re not afraid,” she murmured.

“Like hell I’m not,” Michael said promptly. “Linda-what is it?”

“You saw it.”

“Yes, and I know too well that eyesight is a damned unreliable witness. We can’t stand here all night. Are you sure it can’t get into the house?”

“I’m not sure what it can do.”

“That’s comforting. Aren’t there any lights in this hole? I’d be happier if I could see what was coming at me. I think.”

“Of course there are lights. I was afraid to use them, before.”

“We’ll risk it now.”

As she switched the lights on, Michael turned from the door. He had been peering out through the small window, and he answered her question before she could voice it aloud.

“Nothing there now. I could see clearly during that last big flash.”

“It’s gone,” she said. “Not-vanished. Withdrawn.”

“You can feel it? Sense it? Damn the language, it’s inadequate.”

“I can tell when it’s coming, sometimes. But not long in advance.”

Michael laughed, a short, explosive sound that held no amusement. The antique wall sconce, which was the sole source of light in the hall, held pink bulbs shaped like candle flames-one of Andrea’s cuter affectations. The rosy light gave Michael’s cheeks a healthy flush, but she knew, by the shape of the lines around his mouth, that he was badly shaken.

“We’re talking about it as if it were susceptible to natural laws,” he muttered. “Damn it, I’m still not ready to admit that it isn’t. It was the shock of seeing it like that, when I hadn’t…And you’ve been living with that for-how long?”

“I don’t know… Months.”

“And you’ve held on to your sanity.”

“By the width of a fingernail,” she said. “By the breadth of a hair.”

Separated from her by the width of the hall, Michael did not move; but the steady dark eyes held hers with a look that was as palpable as a touch, and as expressive as a page of print. Linda knew the look; no woman with a single normal instinct could have failed to read it. Her eyes fell before his, and after a moment he spoke in a casual tone.

“As a companion in a haunted house you’re not very cheering. You look like a little ghost yourself. How long has it been since you’ve had any sleep, or a decent meal? And speaking of food, I’m starved. Is there anything in the house except toadstools and henbane?”

“Yes, of course. Come out to the kitchen.”

While she made coffee and scraped together a scanty meal, Michael wandered around the kitchen making casual remarks. This was an interlude of comparative sanity in the midst of madness; both of them recognized its artificiality, just as they recognized the need for a breathing space. But she knew that he looked out the window each time he passed it, and she did not miss the fleeting glance he gave the door. It was bolted and chained; Andrea had left it that way, and she had checked those bolts daily, knowing their inadequacy but knowing, as well, that no precaution could be neglected. Only once did he refer to the thing that loomed large in both their minds.

“The cats,” he exclaimed, as a tabby-striped tom appeared, demanding sustenance. “How do they get in and out?”

“One of those pet doors, in the cellar. No,” she said, as he made an involuntary movement of alarm. “It’s too small for anything but a cat. You know how they can compress themselves-like rubber-”

“Yes, I know,” he said.

The meal was a poor one-she had already depleted Andrea’s stock of food-but Linda ate ravenously. She hadn’t had much appetite the last few days. Michael watched her with satisfaction, eating little himself. She didn’t blame him; canned lima beans and tuna fish were unappealing unless you were half starved. When she pushed her empty plate away and looked up, she found him braced and ready.

“Talk to me,” he said. “I don’t know how much time we have.”

“About-it?” She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “How can I? How do you talk about something that is either supernatural or else a-”

“Delusion? You still believe that?”

“At first, when you saw it too, I thought…But Michael, you’ve heard of collective hallucinations.”

“The fact that you can still admit that possibility is a good indication of your sanity,” Michael said. “I’m willing to admit it myself, but only as one theory among others. Linda, are you sure that damned thing isn’t real? That it isn’t an actual, living dog?”

“There is no such animal in the neighborhood. Believe me, I made sure.”

“A wild dog? Even a wolf? It sounds unlikely, I know, but-”

“Even a wolf can’t live without food. Sooner or later it would rob a poultry yard, or attack a pet animal. It might not be seen, but its presence would certainly be known.”

“And no one else has seen it?”

“No…” She found it hard to meet his eyes after that admission, but he seemed undismayed.

“Not Andrea?”

“She knows about it,” Linda admitted. “She believes in it. But she’s never seen it.”

“Odd,” Michael muttered. “That she hasn’t seen it. She believes it’s supernatural, of course.”

“Of course. But don’t make the obvious mistake about Andrea. For all her superstitions, she has a hard core of common sense. She can believe in various fantastic phenomena, but she doesn’t imagine things. There’s a difference.”

“I know what you mean. I could believe in flying saucers without too much effort; there has been a certain amount of evidence. But I can’t believe that I saw one land, and a bunch of little green guys get out of it, unless I have a screw loose somewhere.”

“None of Andrea’s screws are loose. She has some screws in unusual places, though.”

Michael laughed.

“Then you and I are the only ones who have seen the dog,” he said. “When did you see it first?”

“It’s hard to remember exactly… About a year ago, I guess. I remember the occasion very clearly, though.”

“I can see why you might.”

“I went for a walk, at twilight. I like that time of day-at least I used to. I wasn’t in a very happy mood. There had been…words, with Gordon. I walked out under the trees, just wandering around. The ground was wet and soggy, but everything smelled so fresh and sweet. The sky was a pale greenish blue, there was a new moon. I went down that avenue of cherry trees. It ends, if you remember, at a fence; there’s a pretty view from that point, out across the pastures.