The Woman Next Door by T. M. Wright Page A

you calling, Tim?"
    "Calling?" He reappeared in the living room doorway. "No one. Just time-temperature."
    "Oh?" She wheeled herself to the middle of the room, flashed him another perplexed smile, but now it was mixed with accusation. "Something's wrong, Tim, and I wish you'd tell me what it is."
    "No. Nothing. Just this crap with the developer."
    "You're sure?"
    He went to her, leaned over, and kissed her lightly on the forehead. 'Tm sure."
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    G reg Courtney was too numbed with fright to cry. He didn't know what he'd done, precisely, but it didn't matter. This place mattered, because it was dark here and chillingly damp, and if the house itself had always made him uncomfortable—although he had lived in it all his life—the cellar had always scared him silly. The reason was simple: There were things in the cellar that couldn't live above ground, things that came into it from the earth surrounding, things that crowded into the darkness once the light was turned off and the door closed—once the cellar was left to itself. Cellars were for dead things because cellars were below ground.
    Greg started to shake uncontrollably. He realized that he was scaring himself, that it was a stupid thing to do, that cellars were just places where furnaces were put, and boxes and old furniture. Sometimes cellars flooded, and then it was a real hassle getting them cleaned up again.
    He wanted, needed to cry. The shuffling sounds of the things slipping toward him in the darkness would be covered by his crying But he was still too numbed, disbelieving, frightened. He thought suddenly how wonderful it would be if he could go to some small point in his mind where the reality of this place would be far beyond him, where he would be out of its reach—invisible, inside himself.
    He knew there was a light above him, that it would be easy to reach, but quickly discarded the idea of trying, because the numbing fear in him now was better than what the sudden turning on of the light would show him.
    He knew what he should be thinking—about other things, silly things: clowns, unicorns, barber poles. But he found that he could only think the words, and they were really code words for the things that existed in cellars, the things that were slipping toward him in the darkness.
    He lashed out suddenly with both hands. The back of his right hand connected with something metallic, and a hot pain settled into his hand and arm. He swore—"Shit!" and realized it was the first time he had ever used the word. If his mother heard him . . .   Pain overcame his thoughts. He knew he had hurt himself. He stumbled toward the cellar stairs, found them, started up. "Mommy?" he called, tearfully. "Mommy!"
    The cellar door opened; the sudden light blinded him momentarily. "Mommy, I hurt myself." His eyes adjusted; he saw that the doorway was empty.
    He moved quickly up the stairs—the darkness behind, the light ahead, the pain pushing him. And vaulted through the kitchen, into the hallway, then to the entrance to the living room.
    Because the curtains were open, he could see that a light snowfall had begun. And he could see that his mother was at the other side of the large room, near the windows, her back to him. "Mommy?" He noticed that the pain had ebbed, that his band felt merely numb. "Mommy, I hurt myself. So I came upstairs. It's okay, isn't it?"
    Marilyn said nothing. Greg saw that she was holding something in her left hand—a sheet of paper.
    He moved forward a few steps, stopped. "Mommy?"
    Marilyn spoke, her tone even but tense: "I forgave you before, Greg. I sent you to your room, but it was necessary. You had to be punished before you could be forgiven. You understand that, I'm sure. You're a smart boy. You're my son. But this time you have deliberately , deliberately defied me. And I cannot countenance that. You understand why, don't you? You understand that if I let you do what you wanted to do, you would eventually destroy