Read Online Shadowland by Peter Straub - Free Book Online

'Be a good friend to our Del, now,' he said softly. Tom nodded, then by reflex held out his hand. Bud Copeland shook it warmly, smiling down. An odd look of recognition, disturbing to Tom, momentarily passed over the butler's face. 'I see the Arizona Flanagans are gentlemen,' he said, gripping the boy's hand. 'Take care, Red.'
     
         In the car, his mother said, 'I didn't know that the house had been sold to a Negro family.'
     
          Take care, Red.
     
       
     
       
     
      9
     
       
     
      Tom by Night
     
          
     
      In his dream, which was somehow connected to Bud Copeland, he was being looked at by a vulture, not looking himself, but averting his eyes to the scrubby sandyground — he had seen vultures from time to time, grotesque birds, on the roofs of desert towns on trips with his parents. The vulture was gazing at him with a horrid patient acceptance, knowing all about him. Nothing surprised the vulture, neither heat nor cold, not life or death. The vulture accepted all as it accepted him. It waited for the world to roll its way, and the world always did.
     
         This was a vulture in vulture middle age. Its feathers were greasy, its bill darkened.
     
         First it had eaten his father, and now it would devour him. Nothing could stop it. The world rolled its way, and then it ate what it was given. The vulture was a lesson in economics.
     
         So was his father, for his father was dead — that was real economics. His father was a skeleton hanging from a tree, having been converted into vulture fuel. The loathsome bird hopped forward on its claws and scrutinized him. Yes, it accepted what it saw.
     
         And accepting, spoke to him: as would a snake or a weasel or a bat, in tones too fast and subtle for his understanding. It was crucial that he know what the vulture was saying, but he would have to hear the fast voiceless voice many times before he could begin to decipher its message. He hoped he would never hear it again.
     
         Uncaring, as if Tom were now no more significant than sagebrush or a yucca tree, the vulture craned its neck and turned around and began to walk away into the desert.
     
         Heat shimmered around him.
     
         Then, with the suddenness of dreams, he was no longer in the desert but in a lush green valley. The air was gray and full of moisture, the valley crowded with ferns and rocks and fallen trees. Far below him a man in a long coat continued the vulture's measured indifferent walk. He went away from the boy, indifferent to him. He became vague in the gray air. The man disappeared behind a boulder, emerged again, and vanished.
     
         Where he had been, a large colorless bird flapped noiselessly away into the dark air.
     
         Tom woke up, sure that his father was dead. His father was lying beside his mother in their bedroom, dead.
     
         Tom's heart urged him forward, beat in pain and desolation against his ribs, his throat, made him throw off the sheet and walk across his dark room to the door. He groaned, felt that he was doomed to cry or scream. The darkness was hostile, enveloping. He slipped out of his room and went down the hall to his parents' room.
     
         Trembling, he touched the knob. The scream lodged behind his tongue and tried to escape. Tom closed his eyes and gently pushed the door open. Then he opened his eyes and stepped into his parents' room.
     
         He gasped, loudly enough to wake his mother. She was alone in the big double bed. On his father's side, the sheet lay as smoothly on the bed as upon an amputation.
     
         'Tom?' she said.
     
         'Dad.'
     
         'Oh, Tommy, he's in the hospital. For tests. Don't you remember? He'll be back tomorrow. Don't worry, Tommy. It'll be all right.'
     
         'Had a nightmare,' he said thickly, excused himself, and stumbled back to his own bed.
     
       
     
       
     
      10
     
       
     
      Poetry