Clive Barker - The Great and Secret Show

But today, as he watched from his window, he took no joy in the ritual. Was it simply the fact of Buddy Vance's death, and the tragedy that had come as its consequence, that subdued folks so mightily; that kept them from greeting each other as they passed on the parking lot? Or was it that they, like he, had woken with a strange expectation, as though some event was in the offing that they'd neglected to write in their diaries, but at which they'd be sorely missed were they not to attend.

Simply standing and watching, unable to interpret what he saw or felt, dragged his spirits to their knees. He decided to go on a round of appraisals. There were three houses—two in Deerdell, one in Windbluff—that needed looking over, and prices determined. His anxiety didn't diminish as he drove over to Deerdell. The sun that beat on the sidewalks and the lawns beat to bruise; the air above shimmered as if to dissolve brick and slate: to take his precious Grove away entirely.

The two properties in Deerdell were in very different states of repair; both required his full attention as he went through them, totting up their merits and demerits. By the time he'd finished with them, and begun towards the Wind-bluff house, he'd been long enough distracted from his fears to think that maybe he'd been over-reacting. The task ahead, he knew, would afford him considerable pleasure. The house on Wild Cherry Glade, just below the Crescents, was large and desirable. He was already creating the Better Homes Bulletin pitch as he stepped from the car:

Be King of the Hill! The perfect family home is waiting for you!

He selected the front door key from the two on the ring, and opened up. Legal wrangles had kept the property empty and off the market since the spring; the air inside was dusty and stale. He liked the smell. There was something about empty places that touched him. He liked to think of them as homes in waiting; blank canvases upon which buyers would paint their own particular paradise. He wandered through the house, making meticulous notes in each room, turning seductive phrases over in his head as he went:

Spacious and Immaculate. A Home to Delight even the Choosiest Buyer. 3 Bedrooms, 2 1/2 baths, with Terrazzo floors, Birch panelling in formal living room, kitchen fully equipped, covered patio...

Given its size and location the house would, he knew, command a good price. Having made a circuit of the lower floor he unlocked the yard door and stepped outside. The houses, even on the lower parts of the Hill, were well spread. The yard was not overlooked by either of the neighbors' houses. Had it been, they might well have complained of its condition. The lawn was shin-high, patchy and sere; the trees needed cutting back. He walked across the sun-baked ground to measure the pool. It had not been drained after Mrs. Lloyd, who'd owned the property, had died. The water was low, its surface encrusted with an algae greener than the grass which sprang between the tiling at the pool's edge. It smelt rank. Rather than linger to measure the pool, he guessed its dimensions, knowing his practiced eye was virtually as accurate as his tape. He was jotting the figures down when a ripple started in the center of the pool, crawling over the sluggish surface towards him. He stepped away from the edge, making a note to get the Pool Services up here soonest. Whatever was breeding in the filth—fungus or fish—could count their teeming tenancy in hours.

The water moved again; darting motions that put him in mind of another day entirely, and of another body of haunted water. He put the memory from his head—or at least tried to—and, turning his back on the pool, began towards the house. But the memory had been too long alone; it insisted on going with him. He could see the four girls—Carolyn, Trudi, Joyce and Arleen, lovely Arleen—as clearly as if it were just yesterday he'd spied on them. He watched them in his mind's eyes, stripping off their clothes. He heard their chatter; their laughter.

He stopped walking, and glanced back at the pool. The soup was once more still. Whatever it had bred or was a bed for had gone back to sleep. He glanced at his watch. He'd been away from the office only an hour and three quarters. If he picked up his pace and finished here quickly, he could slip back home for a while, and watch a video from his collection. The notion, fuelled in part by the erotic recollections the pool had stirred, took him back into the house with renewed zeal. He locked up the back, and started upstairs.

Halfway up, a noise from above brought him to a halt.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

There was no reply, but the noise came again. He made his demand a second time; a dialogue of question and sound, question and sound. Were there children in the house, perhaps? Breaking into empty properties, which had been a fad some years before, was once again on the increase. This was the first time he'd had the opportunity to catch a culprit in the act of trespass however.

"Are you coming down?" he said, giving as much basso profundo to his question as he could muster. "Or am I coming up to bring you down?"

The only reply was the same skittering sound he'd heard twice already, like a small dog with unclipped nails running over a hardwood floor.

So be it, William thought. He began up the stairs again, making his steps as heavy as possible to intimidate the trespassers. He knew most of the Grove's children by their names and nicknames. Those that he didn't he could readily point out in the schoolyard. He'd make an example of them, and so dissuade further offenders.

By the time he reached the top of the stairs all was silent. The afternoon sun poured through the window, its warmth calming what small anxiety ticked in him. There was no danger here. Danger was a midnight street in L.A., and the sound of a knife scraping brick as someone came in pursuit. This was the Grove, on a sunny Friday afternoon.

As if to confirm that thought a wind-up toy came scuttling through the green door of the master bedroom; a foot-and-a-half-long white centipede, its plastic feet tapping the floor in rhythm. He smiled at the gesture. The child was sending his toy out to signal surrender. Smiling indulgently, William stooped to pick it up, his eyes on the floor through the door.

His gaze flickered back to the toy as his fingers made contact, however, his touch confirming what sight comprehended too late to act upon: that the thing he was picking up was not a toy at all. Its shell was soft, hot and damp beneath his hand, its peristaltic motion repulsive. He tried to let it go but its body adhered to his hand, working against his palm. Dropping notebook and pencil, he snatched the creature from one hand with the other, and threw it down. It fell on its segmented back, its dozen legs pedalling like an overturned shrimp. Gasping, he staggered back against the wall, until a voice from beyond the door said:

"Don't stand on ceremony. You're welcome inside."

The speaker was no child, William realized, but then he'd decided several seconds ago that his first scenario had been optimistic.

"Mr. Witt," said a second voice. It was lighter than the first; and recognizable.

"Tommy-Ray?" William said, unable to disguise the relief he felt. "Is that you, Tommy-Ray?"

"Sure is. Come on in. Meet the gang."

"What's going on here?" William said, stepping clear of the struggling beast and pushing open the door. Mrs. Lloyd's chintz drapes had been drawn against the sun, and after the blaze of light outside the room seemed doubly dark. But he could make out Tommy-Ray McGuire, standing in the middle of the room, and behind him, sitting in the darkest corner, another presence. One of them had been dipping in the rank water of the pool, it seemed; the sickly smell pricked William's sinuses.

"You shouldn't be in here," he chided Tommy-Ray. "Do you realize you're trespassing? This house—"