Read Online People of the Dark by T.M. Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T.M. Wright
Tags: Horror
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distance—and the trailer was a good one hundred fifty feet away—some emotions are easy to spot, and perhaps it wasn't so much that I could read the woman's face at that distance as that I could read the stiff set of her body, but I knew that she was watching the jogger with undisguised hatred.
CHAPTER EIGHT
T hese are the things I remember fondly about Erika: I remember that she liked to make love with her socks on because her feet got cold. I remember that she quickly learned the names of most of the birds that came to feed at our feeding stations just west of the house. She got a kick out of being able to name them, as if their names, or her ability to remember them, or both, involved the use of a whole different language.
I remember that she did not like the dark. It was not a matter of being afraid of it so much as simply being uncomfortable with it. The only time we ever talked about it, she said she wasn't sure why it made her uncomfortable, and then she thought a moment and added, "I think that I feel too much in it, Jack. I feel that it's going to solidify," which mystified me.
She quite often mystifies me, which is something, of course, that people often do to other people. Sometimes it's a game; sometimes it's a pose; sometimes it's real. With Erika, it's real. She often mystifies herself, I think.
In March, for instance, she began to seek out the dark. First the night-light that she always kept burning in the bedroom got unplugged. Then the curtains, which I'd lately gotten into the habit of leaving open in order to let in what light there might be (except when I insisted that the heating bills would be lower if we closed them), got closed permanently, and the translucent shades behind them got replaced with opaque. And yet she still was uncomfortable.
I came up to the bedroom after working late and found her in a rocking chair, in the dark. I went over to her, put my hands on her shoulders, found that she was trembling. "Erika," I asked, "why are you trembling?"
"I don't know," she answered, her voice low, as if she didn't want to talk.
"Are you cold?"
"Yes. A little." She was whispering now. "I'm a little cold." She was dressed warmly enough, and the night wasn't particularly cold.
"Can I get you a blanket?"
She shook her head. "It wouldn't help. It's the dark."
"I don't understand." I was still leaning over her, my hands on her shoulders, which seemed to help because she stopped trembling. "What do you mean, 'It's the dark'? I'll turn the light on—"
"No," she cut in. "No. It's okay. It's nothing. The dark makes me cold, that's all." She put her hands on my forearms. She repeated, at a whisper, "The dark makes me cold."
I went to Granada the following morning. I had decided to take the day off because I'd worked a good twelve days straight, trying to meet the deadline on the Earth's-Way account that I realized, at last, wouldn't get met anyway. Erika had given me directions: "Down Route 64 to Clement Road," she said. "That's about two miles from East Cohocton."
"Yes," I said. "I know where it is."
"Good. You go about five miles down Clement Road, Jack. Maybe six miles. You'll see a sign that says 'Granada, Next Right.' When you go right, you've got another mile or so to go down this lousy dirt road—" She paused, continued, "God, I don't know why I went down it at all, Jack. I guess I was lucky I didn't break an axle. Some of those potholes are real killers—you'll find out."
I did find out. I had to keep my three-year-old Toyota well below twenty down that road to Granada.
The remains of a gate led into the place. It stood ten feet tall, and one side—which bore the letters GRAN—was lying in the road that led directly into Granada. The other side had the letters ADA on it.
From the gate, Granada looked much like a thousand similar bedroom communities. The houses were familiar pastel greens and pastel blues and pastel pinks. They were larger than most such houses, though not
CHAPTER EIGHT
T hese are the things I remember fondly about Erika: I remember that she liked to make love with her socks on because her feet got cold. I remember that she quickly learned the names of most of the birds that came to feed at our feeding stations just west of the house. She got a kick out of being able to name them, as if their names, or her ability to remember them, or both, involved the use of a whole different language.
I remember that she did not like the dark. It was not a matter of being afraid of it so much as simply being uncomfortable with it. The only time we ever talked about it, she said she wasn't sure why it made her uncomfortable, and then she thought a moment and added, "I think that I feel too much in it, Jack. I feel that it's going to solidify," which mystified me.
She quite often mystifies me, which is something, of course, that people often do to other people. Sometimes it's a game; sometimes it's a pose; sometimes it's real. With Erika, it's real. She often mystifies herself, I think.
In March, for instance, she began to seek out the dark. First the night-light that she always kept burning in the bedroom got unplugged. Then the curtains, which I'd lately gotten into the habit of leaving open in order to let in what light there might be (except when I insisted that the heating bills would be lower if we closed them), got closed permanently, and the translucent shades behind them got replaced with opaque. And yet she still was uncomfortable.
I came up to the bedroom after working late and found her in a rocking chair, in the dark. I went over to her, put my hands on her shoulders, found that she was trembling. "Erika," I asked, "why are you trembling?"
"I don't know," she answered, her voice low, as if she didn't want to talk.
"Are you cold?"
"Yes. A little." She was whispering now. "I'm a little cold." She was dressed warmly enough, and the night wasn't particularly cold.
"Can I get you a blanket?"
She shook her head. "It wouldn't help. It's the dark."
"I don't understand." I was still leaning over her, my hands on her shoulders, which seemed to help because she stopped trembling. "What do you mean, 'It's the dark'? I'll turn the light on—"
"No," she cut in. "No. It's okay. It's nothing. The dark makes me cold, that's all." She put her hands on my forearms. She repeated, at a whisper, "The dark makes me cold."
I went to Granada the following morning. I had decided to take the day off because I'd worked a good twelve days straight, trying to meet the deadline on the Earth's-Way account that I realized, at last, wouldn't get met anyway. Erika had given me directions: "Down Route 64 to Clement Road," she said. "That's about two miles from East Cohocton."
"Yes," I said. "I know where it is."
"Good. You go about five miles down Clement Road, Jack. Maybe six miles. You'll see a sign that says 'Granada, Next Right.' When you go right, you've got another mile or so to go down this lousy dirt road—" She paused, continued, "God, I don't know why I went down it at all, Jack. I guess I was lucky I didn't break an axle. Some of those potholes are real killers—you'll find out."
I did find out. I had to keep my three-year-old Toyota well below twenty down that road to Granada.
The remains of a gate led into the place. It stood ten feet tall, and one side—which bore the letters GRAN—was lying in the road that led directly into Granada. The other side had the letters ADA on it.
From the gate, Granada looked much like a thousand similar bedroom communities. The houses were familiar pastel greens and pastel blues and pastel pinks. They were larger than most such houses, though not
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