John Saul - Nightshade

At least if he left — even for just a few days — the two people who meant the most to him would no longer be caught in the jaws of a trap with the teeth sinking in from both directions. Then, in a few days — certainly no more than a week — he and Joan could talk again.

Reluctantly, he finished packing. He paused at the closed door to Matt’s room, wondering if he should try to explain why he was leaving. But even as he stood in the hall outside, he could see the hurt that would come into the boy’s eyes, the hurt that would melt his resolve in an instant. Better just to go, and try to explain it all to Matt tomorrow, or perhaps the next day.

He paused at the door to the guest room too, wanting to see Joan one more time, to put his arms around her and protect her from her mother’s wrath. But as he reached for the doorknob he heard Emily’s strident voice once again. As he felt his fury rise again — a fury he was as helpless to control as Emily Moore was helpless to control either her illness or her tongue — he made himself turn away from the door.

Let them be, he told himself. At least for tonight, don’t put any more pressure on them. Clutching the suitcase tightly, he hurried down the stairs and out of the house that was the only home he’d ever known. As he backed the Audi out of the carriage house a few minutes later, he glanced up to the window of the guest room that had been given over to the memory of the woman who lived only in the diseased mind of Emily Moore. He saw his wife standing in the window, looking down at him. As their gazes held, she shrugged her shoulders helplessly and mouthed three words:

She’s my mother!

Then, without waiting to see what he would do, she turned away.

* * *

MATT TOSSED RESTLESSLY in bed, rolling first one way, then the other, pushing the blankets down, then pulling them up again. Finally he gave up trying to sleep.

Maybe he’d feel better if he went downstairs and got something to eat.

Clad only in his bathrobe — the thick velour one his stepfather had given him for Christmas last year — he slipped out into the hall and headed toward the stairs.

Everything about the house felt different tonight. Part of it was having his grandmother there. At first — the day after the fire — he’d thought it felt different because there was someone besides the three of them in the house. In a few days, he’d told himself, they’d all be used to having Gram in the house, and things would be just like they always were.

It hadn’t happened. Instead, as each day crept by, he felt the tension between his parents growing. They tried to hide it from him, but even though they weren’t exactly fighting, he knew they weren’t getting along.

And tonight his father had left.

Matt had watched him from the window, seen him stow his suitcase in the trunk of the Audi, back the car out of the garage, then look up at the house for a few seconds, and drive away. At first he told himself that his stepfather would come back. He was just angry, and when he got over it, he’d return home. But as the minutes had turned into hours and he’d listened as the big clock at the foot of stairs tolled midnight, he knew his dad wasn’t coming back.

Not my dad, Matt reminded himself as he paused outside the closed door to his grandmother’s room. He’s only my stepfather. But the words did nothing to make him feel better: no matter what he called him, Bill Hapgood was the only father he’d ever known. Even now, ten years later, he could still remember how frightened he felt the night after his mother had gotten married and they’d come to live here. The house had seemed so huge, with so many rooms, that at first he was afraid to sleep by himself in his own room. For as long as he could remember he’d had nightmares at night — terrifying dreams that he could never quite remember in the morning — but at least in his grandmother’s house he had known his mother was right in the next bed, ready to hold him if he got too scared. But in this house his mother would be way down the hall, and he’d be all by himself in a room that was bigger than his grandmother’s living room. But that first night his stepfather had come in and told him about how this used to be his room, and that there was a special knight — named the Night-Knight — who always protected him while he slept. Matt had lain in bed listening as his stepfather told him all about the Night-Knight, and finally fell asleep.

And it had worked. The Night-Knight had kept the nightmares at bay, and the next morning while they were eating breakfast, Matt looked shyly up at his stepfather.

“Will you be my dad?” he’d asked, doing his best not to let anyone see how scared he was. What if his stepfather said no?

But his stepfather hadn’t said no, and from then on, everything had been fine. He’d never been frightened again, during the daytime or at night. And even when he’d gotten old enough to understand that the Night-Knight existed only in his imagination, the nightmares had never come back.

But tonight his dad had left, and everything about the house felt different.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, poked around among the leftovers, and finally ate a dish of ice cream. It was weird sitting by himself in the kitchen, because usually when he was worried about something and couldn’t sleep and came down to get something to eat in the middle of the night, his dad would show up too, and the two of them would sit there talking until they’d worked out whatever was bothering him.

But tonight he was by himself, and there was no chance his dad would come to talk to him.

Shit!

Leaving the empty ice cream dish on the sink, he started back up the stairs. When he got to the top, he paused, listening. Behind the closed door to her room, Matt could hear his grandmother muttering to herself. Though the words were indistinct, her voice droned on and on, and he had the feeling that even though he couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying, she was talking to someone.

His mother?

He moved closer.

But it wasn’t from his grandmother’s room that he was hearing the voice — it seemed to be coming from the room next door.

He made his way silently to the room adjoining his grandmother’s.

The old woman’s voice was clearer now, but he still couldn’t distinguish the words.

Reaching out, he placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it.

He pushed the door open just far enough to peer into the room.

Though none of the lamps were on, the moon was glowing just brightly enough to let him see the interior of the room. His grandmother was standing in front of the fireplace, staring up at the portrait of his aunt.

Her lips were moving, and though her voice was low, Matt could distinguish some of her words: “… time to come home… need you… help me… come home, Cynthia…”

“Gram?” Matt asked uncertainly. “Are you okay?”

No response.

He hesitated. Should he say something else? But then, as he was trying to decide what to do, his grandmother slowly turned and her eyes, barely visible in the moonlight, fixed on him.

“Joan’s bastard,” she whispered. She took an unsteady step toward him, her eyes flashing venomously. “Damn you…”

Recoiling from his grandmother’s curse, her words ringing in his head, Matt pulled the door closed and hurried back to his room.

He shut his own door too, against the sound of his grandmother’s muttering, but it was still audible from the room down the hall, and he couldn’t deafen himself to the last words she had spoken to him.

Joan’s bastard… Joan’s bastard… The words resounded in his mind, taunting him.

Dropping his robe on the chair in front of his desk, he slid naked into his bed and pulled the covers tight.