David Morrell - The Totem

"The afternoon's been slow. I don't think anyone will come up now."

"Well, I've got guests. I can't stay any longer."

They closed the door. The man reached to put a key inside the lock.

"No, I didn't tell you," the woman said. "Eva phoned to tell me she couldn't find her key."

"Well, she can get mine from me in the morning."

"No, she wants to do her work before tonight. She has to go away tomorrow."

"I can't leave the place unlocked," the man said.

"Only for ten minutes. I expected her before this."

"If vandals get here sooner, you know how the owners will react."

"From what I hear, they still have plans to sell the place. It doesn't make a difference."

"Just remember. It was your idea."

"Such a gentleman."

They started down the stairs.

It crouched behind the bushes, watching as they put the boxes in the car.

"I'll drive you home," the woman said.

"No, that's all right. I need the walk. So when's your next shift?"

"Not for two weeks. Sunday afternoon."

"They've got me chairing meetings."

"Well, I'll see you later."

Nodding, the man walked down the gravel driveway, and the woman got in her car, driving past the man. She blared her horn. The man waved, and soon both the man and car were out of sight.

It waited just a while. Then it crept out from the bushes, running toward the porch. It huddled by the steps and looked around, then scampered up the steps and turned the knob, and it was in there.

Very quiet. Everything smelled musty. It remembered the large big hallway, bigger than the living room at home, and there were tables, stacks of papers to one side, and a box where people put their money in.

Its mother had, at any rate, She had explained about historical societies and how an old house like this had to be preserved for people to appreciate the way things used to be. It hadn't understood the words exactly, but it sort of had the sense that this old place was special, and it hadn't liked the musty smell back then, but now it did.

The hall was shadowy, rooms on both sides, old-time furniture in there, guns up on the wall and maps and faded oval photographs. It listened, but there wasn't any movement in the house, and it crept forward. Now it faced a big room with the longest table it had ever seen, big-backed chairs along it, plates and glasses set out, knives and forks and more spoons than it understood, as if a party soon would be here, people eating. There were ghosts here, it was sure, but oddly, that was comforting. The staircase wound up toward the second floor, a caged-in elevator to the side. Its mother had explained about the elevator, how the platform rose without an engine. You simply had to pull down on the rope that dangled in there, and a pulley then would turn to raise you. But the cage had boards across the front, and anyway it never would have stepped inside there. All those bars. The place was too much like a trap.

It walked a little farther, pausing as the floor creaked. No, it had made that noise itself. There wasn't anybody in here, and it wondered where to go. Up the stairs or to the cellar. No, the cellar would be a trap as well, and boards creaking, it was inching up the stairs.

But it stopped as the front door opened. It turned, the daylight out there strong, painful, staring at the man who stood within the open doorway. This man had just left. He'd walked until he'd disappeared along the gravel driveway. That was why there hadn't been a warning, why there hadn't been a car sound to alarm it, and it hissed now as the man came forward.

"Yeah, that's just what I expected. Leave the door unlocked, she says. God damn it, kid, get out of here."

It hissed again.

"What's your name? I'm mad enough to call the cops."

It growled then, and the man hesitated, frowning.

"None of that damned stuff. You get your ass on down here."

One more step. The man was at the bottom of the stairs. He reached, and it was leaping, body arcing down the stairs to jolt the man and send him sprawling.

"Hey, God damn it." But the man apparently expected that it next would try to scramble past him toward the open door. The man lunged to the side to block it, his neck uncovered, and it dove in straight below the chin.

"Jesus."

They struggled. It could feel the blood spurt into its mouth. It gagged again. The taste was not unpleasant, even in a way compelling, although the choking was an agony. It chewed and swallowed, gagging.

Abruptly it couldn't breathe.

The man was squeezing at its throat. It felt the pressure in its chest. It squirmed. It twisted.

"God-damned kid."

Then teeth free, it was snarling at the hands around its throat. It tried to bite the hands but only nipped the acrid, cigarette-vile, suit-coat sleeves, and suddenly one leg was underneath it, pushing, as it flew high to one side, its body slamming on the wooden floor and rolling hard against a table.

Even so, its instinct was automatic. Turning, it scrambled on all fours and braced to spring again. The man rolled, coming to his feet. They stared at one another.

Then the man looked at the blood across his clothes. He touched his neck. "My God!" He understood now, his hands up, stumbling backward.

It leaped, but not strongly enough to drop the man, just knock him farther backward. "Oh, my God!" the man kept saying. And the open door was suddenly behind the man. The man was out there, kicking as it leapt again. Its shoulder took the kick. The jolt spread through its body. Falling, it landed on that shoulder. It crawled back and snarled.

Snarled not just toward the man but toward the carsound coming up the lane now. It could see beyond the man toward where the car was coming into view. A different car. A different woman driving. It was staring, crawling farther toward the stairs. Its shoulder wasn't working. It snarled and stumbled up the stairs. Then as it heard the car door out there squeak open, as the man glanced quickly out there, it mustered the little strength it retained and scuttled farther up the stairs. The stairs kept winding. It reached the second floor, and out of sight from down there, it huddled, tensing.

"Mr. Cody!" It heard the woman's voice outside, the rushing footsteps on the porch. "Good Lord! Your throat! The… Mr. Cody!"

It heard the heavy body slump to the floor.

"Never mind me. Get in there and use the phone," the man rasped. "Call the cops, an ambulance. Watch for some kid, something, on the stairs."

Panicked, much less certain now of what it should be doing, it swung to face the hallway up here, looking for a place to hide. It scurried. But at least the place was dark up here. At least its eyes no longer hurt.

"You've got to help me."

The medical examiner blinked at the shirtless man. The television news was droning.

"I don't-"

"Hey, you didn't give me any choice. I didn't mean to hit you that hard."

The afternoon came back to him. His head hurt when he moved it, and his lips and nose felt like they belonged to someone else. When he touched them, they were senseless, swollen, but he felt the blood, and he was groaning.

"Look. My dog. You've got to help me," the man said.

"What's the matter?"

"She's not moving. She just lies there, staring at me."

"Jesus, stay away from her."

"I am. My Christ, if only I had listened. Can I get it if she licked me?"

The medical examiner struggled to sit up. "When?"

"This morning. She was acting fine then."

"Wash your hands! I hope you didn't touch your mouth. You don't have any cuts she might have licked?"

"I can't remember."

"What?"

"I don't have any cuts. I can't remember if I touched my mouth."

"I told you, wash your hands." The effort of the conversation made him dizzy. He slumped back. "Use disinfectant. Mouthwash. Gargle. Change your clothes." He gripped the sofa to brace himself and stand. He fell back. Then he took a breath and made it to his feet. The blood was all across his tie and shirt. He started feeling angry, and that helped him. "Hurry up. Wash your hands." Then suddenly he thought about the hand that had split his lip and smashed his nose. He bolted down the hallway, shoving past the man who was going into the bathroom. "Get away. I've got to wash my face."