years
– well, most of them denied knowing what I was talking about, at
least at first, and if I did convince them that I wasn’t crazy and
I didn’t think they were crazy, it always turned out that just like the kids,
they didn’t know any more than I did. None of them had the dreams,
or the ability to spot other psychics, the way I did; they only saw
the things that came out at night. And they’d all had the talent
for as long as they could remember, they didn’t get it thrust on
them by a history teacher turned witch.
They’d all learned to ignore it as
children. I’d had some interesting conversations about that, but
none of them had led anywhere useful.
At least I knew those people were
seeing more or less the same things I saw. On the other hand, the
books on the occult that I’d read were just plain wrong. Everything
in them was nonsense. It didn’t matter if it was the old ones about
vampires and witches, or the New Age stuff about crystals and
vibrations – their explanations of the supernatural didn’t match
what I saw, or what the other psychics saw. They didn’t even come
close.
So for eight years, whenever I left
the safety of my apartment at night, I’d been winging it, making it
up as I went along.
I’d have given anything
for a watcher, a teacher, or a sensei .
After awhile the stores closed, and
then the restaurants, and when the bars started shutting their
doors and turning off their neon signs I headed back out Winchester
Road toward that quiet little 1950s development, trying not to look
at the night-things scampering and scurrying in the corners of my
vision.
At that, though, Lexington didn’t seem
quite as densely populated with shadows and monsters as back home
in the Washington area. I don’t know whether that was because there
were fewer people in the area, or because it hadn’t been settled as
long, or what.
Once I turned off the main
drag into the residential areas I drove slowly and carefully; I
didn’t want the sound of the car’s engine to disturb anyone or
attract attention. If someone did see me, I hoped they’d just think I was one of
their neighbors coming home late.
The streets were deserted.
The houses were dark. Not a single window was lit. This was clearly
not a place with any night-life. Yes, it was well after midnight,
but still, I wasn’t used to seeing anywhere this quiet.
I coasted to a stop at the end of the
street, killed the headlights, rolled down the window, and sat for
a moment, looking and listening and smelling the air.
That carnival scent I’d noticed
earlier was gone; I could smell trees, and mown lawns, and engine
fumes. The air was cool, but so humid it felt clammy. I could hear
wind rustling in the leaves, and a faint hum of insects.
There were things moving out there,
lots of them. Some of them were making noises, or at least doing
something I seemed to hear, though I knew pretty much no one else
over the age of puberty would hear a thing; I was aware of giggling
and whispering and stifled little shrieks. I couldn’t see much in
the dark; the nearest streetlight was out, and the glow from the
rest didn’t penetrate this far very well.
And under the big tulip poplar
crouched something white.
I got out of the car, and slowly,
carefully closed the door, making sure that it latched and making
sure that the key was safely in my pocket. I glanced at the last
house on the street, the home of the shotgun-wielding woman, but it
was as dark and quiet as any other.
I walked forward cautiously. I
remembered that the tulip poplar had been dropping leaves, so I
watched where I put my feet; I didn’t want to rustle like a damned
newspaper.
“ I’m back,” I
whispered.
Where’s Jack?
“ In the hospital. For
another few hours, anyway.”
He’s coming back to
me?
“ I don’t know about that,
but he’s coming home.
He’ll come to me. He loves
me.
I stopped walking to consider that.
“Does he?” I asked at last.
He does love me. He
– well, most of them denied knowing what I was talking about, at
least at first, and if I did convince them that I wasn’t crazy and
I didn’t think they were crazy, it always turned out that just like the kids,
they didn’t know any more than I did. None of them had the dreams,
or the ability to spot other psychics, the way I did; they only saw
the things that came out at night. And they’d all had the talent
for as long as they could remember, they didn’t get it thrust on
them by a history teacher turned witch.
They’d all learned to ignore it as
children. I’d had some interesting conversations about that, but
none of them had led anywhere useful.
At least I knew those people were
seeing more or less the same things I saw. On the other hand, the
books on the occult that I’d read were just plain wrong. Everything
in them was nonsense. It didn’t matter if it was the old ones about
vampires and witches, or the New Age stuff about crystals and
vibrations – their explanations of the supernatural didn’t match
what I saw, or what the other psychics saw. They didn’t even come
close.
So for eight years, whenever I left
the safety of my apartment at night, I’d been winging it, making it
up as I went along.
I’d have given anything
for a watcher, a teacher, or a sensei .
After awhile the stores closed, and
then the restaurants, and when the bars started shutting their
doors and turning off their neon signs I headed back out Winchester
Road toward that quiet little 1950s development, trying not to look
at the night-things scampering and scurrying in the corners of my
vision.
At that, though, Lexington didn’t seem
quite as densely populated with shadows and monsters as back home
in the Washington area. I don’t know whether that was because there
were fewer people in the area, or because it hadn’t been settled as
long, or what.
Once I turned off the main
drag into the residential areas I drove slowly and carefully; I
didn’t want the sound of the car’s engine to disturb anyone or
attract attention. If someone did see me, I hoped they’d just think I was one of
their neighbors coming home late.
The streets were deserted.
The houses were dark. Not a single window was lit. This was clearly
not a place with any night-life. Yes, it was well after midnight,
but still, I wasn’t used to seeing anywhere this quiet.
I coasted to a stop at the end of the
street, killed the headlights, rolled down the window, and sat for
a moment, looking and listening and smelling the air.
That carnival scent I’d noticed
earlier was gone; I could smell trees, and mown lawns, and engine
fumes. The air was cool, but so humid it felt clammy. I could hear
wind rustling in the leaves, and a faint hum of insects.
There were things moving out there,
lots of them. Some of them were making noises, or at least doing
something I seemed to hear, though I knew pretty much no one else
over the age of puberty would hear a thing; I was aware of giggling
and whispering and stifled little shrieks. I couldn’t see much in
the dark; the nearest streetlight was out, and the glow from the
rest didn’t penetrate this far very well.
And under the big tulip poplar
crouched something white.
I got out of the car, and slowly,
carefully closed the door, making sure that it latched and making
sure that the key was safely in my pocket. I glanced at the last
house on the street, the home of the shotgun-wielding woman, but it
was as dark and quiet as any other.
I walked forward cautiously. I
remembered that the tulip poplar had been dropping leaves, so I
watched where I put my feet; I didn’t want to rustle like a damned
newspaper.
“ I’m back,” I
whispered.
Where’s Jack?
“ In the hospital. For
another few hours, anyway.”
He’s coming back to
me?
“ I don’t know about that,
but he’s coming home.
He’ll come to me. He loves
me.
I stopped walking to consider that.
“Does he?” I asked at last.
He does love me. He
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