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Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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them."
"Came over from my house just up the road," Heather had been waiting for the chance to say. "Jessica knows me."
This failed to impress either of the women. "Well, I hope you found out what you wanted to," Mrs. Palmer was insincere enough to tell Sylvia.
"I'm
starting."
Both women stared at that but didn't speak. They had dragged their woebegone daughters to the exit when Mrs. Bennett offered a parting remark. "I didn't think you looked like mothers."
"I wouldn't want to if it meant looking like them," Heather murmured, and gave them time to slam themselves and their children into a car before she called "We'll be off then, Jessica."
"Thank you for helping," the ballet teacher said.
"Yes, thank you," said the pianist.
Their gratitude seemed less than wholehearted, but Heather was preoccupied. As she preceded Sylvia along the pavement, through a lingering chilly scent the women must have left behind, she said "Do you think someone ought to be looking behind what the girls were saying?"
"Willow and Laurel? I think you should always look behind things."
"I just wonder if it's too simple to dismiss what they said as made up. Didn't some of it sound like trying to talk about child abuse?"
At first Sylvia merely gazed at her. "Heather, sometimes your mind is really small."
"I don't think it's small-minded to care about children. And while we're talking about them, I should be a bit more careful how you question them, even if you are researching another book."
Of course, she thought at once, Sylvia had come home mostly for their father, which was why Sylvia said "I wouldn't want you to believe I'm here just to research." They left the glow of a streetlamp behind for the shadows outside Heather's house, and darkness seemed to well up from Sylvia's eyes, veiling her face.
8
Forgotten Dreams
HEATHER was in no hurry to emerge from a dense sleep featureless as fog when she became aware that she and Sam were no longer alone in the house. As she remembered the other was Sylvia she made to turn over in bed, hoping she could fit herself back into the sleep that the thought of restoring her family rendered even more peaceful, and then she found she was unable to move. The sheet between her and the quilt was pinning her down, trapping her on her back, arms pressed against her sides, as though a cocoon had enveloped her while she slept. A weight had joined her on the bed.
She splayed her fingers on the mattress and opened her eyes a crack. Sylvia was sitting on the far end of the bed, arms folded, head tilted to watch her sister.
She wore a black dress long and loose enough to conceal most of her gauntness.
Whatever expression she bore was swept away by a welcoming smile. "Hey, you're awake at last," she said.
Heather sat up against the padded headboard. "Why, have you been here long?"
"Pretty much since the sun came up. I don't sleep a whole lot."
A glance at the clock that was using her bedside novel as a plinth showed Heather it was nearly ten, which meant Sylvia must have been sitting there for hours. "What have you been doing?" Heather felt compelled to ask.
"Remembering."
"Much in particular?"
"When we used to share a room."
"Gosh, I couldn't tell you when I last thought about that."
"Remember how we'd tell each other stories while we were going to sleep?"
"It was like dreaming out loud, wasn't it? All the things we were going to do when we grew up. You had a phase when you were going to be an airline pilot and give us all free trips around the world. And I was going to be a doctor or a scientist and cure dad."
"Something could change him. Nobody can stay the same for ever." Sylvia stood up as though the notion had jerked her to her feet like the puppet she was thin enough to be. "When will we see him?" she said.
"As soon as you like once we're ready."
"I've been ready for a while. Is Sam coming with us?"
"You'll have to ask him."
"Okay, I will."
Heather hadn't meant
"Came over from my house just up the road," Heather had been waiting for the chance to say. "Jessica knows me."
This failed to impress either of the women. "Well, I hope you found out what you wanted to," Mrs. Palmer was insincere enough to tell Sylvia.
"I'm
starting."
Both women stared at that but didn't speak. They had dragged their woebegone daughters to the exit when Mrs. Bennett offered a parting remark. "I didn't think you looked like mothers."
"I wouldn't want to if it meant looking like them," Heather murmured, and gave them time to slam themselves and their children into a car before she called "We'll be off then, Jessica."
"Thank you for helping," the ballet teacher said.
"Yes, thank you," said the pianist.
Their gratitude seemed less than wholehearted, but Heather was preoccupied. As she preceded Sylvia along the pavement, through a lingering chilly scent the women must have left behind, she said "Do you think someone ought to be looking behind what the girls were saying?"
"Willow and Laurel? I think you should always look behind things."
"I just wonder if it's too simple to dismiss what they said as made up. Didn't some of it sound like trying to talk about child abuse?"
At first Sylvia merely gazed at her. "Heather, sometimes your mind is really small."
"I don't think it's small-minded to care about children. And while we're talking about them, I should be a bit more careful how you question them, even if you are researching another book."
Of course, she thought at once, Sylvia had come home mostly for their father, which was why Sylvia said "I wouldn't want you to believe I'm here just to research." They left the glow of a streetlamp behind for the shadows outside Heather's house, and darkness seemed to well up from Sylvia's eyes, veiling her face.
8
Forgotten Dreams
HEATHER was in no hurry to emerge from a dense sleep featureless as fog when she became aware that she and Sam were no longer alone in the house. As she remembered the other was Sylvia she made to turn over in bed, hoping she could fit herself back into the sleep that the thought of restoring her family rendered even more peaceful, and then she found she was unable to move. The sheet between her and the quilt was pinning her down, trapping her on her back, arms pressed against her sides, as though a cocoon had enveloped her while she slept. A weight had joined her on the bed.
She splayed her fingers on the mattress and opened her eyes a crack. Sylvia was sitting on the far end of the bed, arms folded, head tilted to watch her sister.
She wore a black dress long and loose enough to conceal most of her gauntness.
Whatever expression she bore was swept away by a welcoming smile. "Hey, you're awake at last," she said.
Heather sat up against the padded headboard. "Why, have you been here long?"
"Pretty much since the sun came up. I don't sleep a whole lot."
A glance at the clock that was using her bedside novel as a plinth showed Heather it was nearly ten, which meant Sylvia must have been sitting there for hours. "What have you been doing?" Heather felt compelled to ask.
"Remembering."
"Much in particular?"
"When we used to share a room."
"Gosh, I couldn't tell you when I last thought about that."
"Remember how we'd tell each other stories while we were going to sleep?"
"It was like dreaming out loud, wasn't it? All the things we were going to do when we grew up. You had a phase when you were going to be an airline pilot and give us all free trips around the world. And I was going to be a doctor or a scientist and cure dad."
"Something could change him. Nobody can stay the same for ever." Sylvia stood up as though the notion had jerked her to her feet like the puppet she was thin enough to be. "When will we see him?" she said.
"As soon as you like once we're ready."
"I've been ready for a while. Is Sam coming with us?"
"You'll have to ask him."
"Okay, I will."
Heather hadn't meant
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