Part 5

She no longer had nightmares about the dump rats but now a new and even more terrifying dream haunted her sleep. She dreamed that the State, unable to supply prefabs fast enough to meet the thousands of new applicants, secretly filled some of the food capsules with sleeping powders. The sleeping victims, chosen at random, were then carried out of their quarters, slipped into State permaplastic coffins and quietly buried. In her dream the plastic prefab became a permaplastic coffin. Doped with sleeping powder, she was buried alive. She would wake up, night after night, screaming, throwing her arms in the air to claw her way out.

At length she began to sit up most of the night; during the day she would sleep at frequent intervals in the foamease chair. This routine effectively ended the dream of being buried alive, but she still dreaded the nights.

She would sit for hours thinking about the dump--the sea gulls squealing, the trash fires flaring, soot flying past the windows and finally Ralph tramping in with his crazy stories about the rats or the mulligan stew or the fortune someone had found in a discarded fruit jar.

She had hated it all before but now she wasn't sure she hated it very much. Maybe she no longer hated it at all. What was it Ralph had said? How did it go? Oh yes: "We ain't got much here, _but at least we're alive_."

The words echoed in her mind. She thought of them a hundred times a day.

It was a small thing that decided her. One morning she was standing at the window, looking out across the trugrass lawn, when a State dispensary ambucar drove up. Two hospital men entered the prefab across the road. In a few minutes they came out carrying old Miss Quinsonby in a plastic bag.

Lucy Leeson felt sick. Although she was perfectly aware that Miss Quinsonby had been ailing for months, the memory of her nightmare came back to torment her. Was it possible that the State actually did "dispose" of the very old and infirm in order to make room for new applicants? The thought was fantastic, and yet the State people were so deadly, impersonally efficient in so many ways....

That very afternoon she signed up for the next monthly tronicar excursion. She had nearly two weeks to wait and she counted the days. One afternoon when she was sleeping in the foamease chair she had a new nightmare. She dreamed that she became ill and pressed the Dispensary button. In the prescribed three minutes two State hospital men appeared. One of them winked at the other and they both smiled slyly at her. Then she noticed that the one who had winked held something behind his back. It was a big folded plastic bag. She awoke with a scream.

On the morning set for the tronicar excursion, she stuffed some personal items in a small kit and went outside to wait. The tronicar driver was supposed to stop and touch her signal chime, but she was taking no chances. She waited nearly an hour, afraid the car might come early. When it finally swung into view down the street, she hurried to the ramp.

After the tronicar had picked up its cargo of State wards and left the immediate prefab area, the driver began an oral travelogue, describing new buildings, sites and developments as the car sped past. She scarcely heard his monotonous speel droning over the speaker system.

Her plans were made. When the car stopped in Newbridge, she would get off on some pretext and simply keep on going. She knew the tronicar excursions were tied to a rigid schedule. The driver would not wait for her very long.

Assuring him that she would return in five minutes, she got out in Newbridge and scurried away in the crowds. Once out of sight, she signaled for a cruisecab.

As the cab slid smoothly through city traffic toward the highway which skirted the dump, horrible doubts assailed her. Suppose Ralph had left? Suppose all of them had left? What would she do? Where could she go? The State owned the house. She did not possess any money. She would have to go back to the prefab, back to the trugrass lawn and the simulated maple tree, back to--_Death_. Once she had spoken it in her mind, she kept on repeating it. Death, death, death. She would have to go back to death. She would have to go back to death.

It became a refrain, ringing in her head. The crisp voice of the driver came through the partition tube, startling her. "This is the refuse area, lady. Where did you want to go?"

Her heart began to pound. She looked out the window, searching for landmarks. "About a mile yet. There's an old empty warehouse and then some catalpa trees. Right after that."

In a minute or two the cruisecab glided to a stop. She paid the driver and got out. Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe.

"You want me to wait, lady?" The driver regarded her quizzically.

She shook her head. "No--no thanks. I--I'm meeting someone here."

The driver glanced at the smoky pall of the dump and shrugged. Seconds later the cruisecab was disappearing down the highway.

She walked past the clump of catalpa trees bordering the highway. There were bushes and then set back a bit would be the house. She stopped, staring, motionless. The house was gone. The State had torn it down and filled in the cellar hole.

As she looked across the littered back yard toward the clump of cattails, she experienced a strange sense of unreality. Sea gulls cried overhead and the sun filtered down through a pall of smoke, but the familiar scene seemed eerily unfamiliar.

Scowling, she closed her eyes momentarily and forced down the panic crowding within her. The house was gone; that was what made everything seem so strange, so unreal. Now she would take the little path that led across the back yard into the cattails. She would find Ralph and the others. Surely they were here somewhere. They would have shelter, at least a substitute for a house. She was acting like a fool. She should have expected the house to be gone; even if it hadn't been, it was no longer hers. She would have no right to enter it, if it were still standing.

Crossing the yard, she hesitated at the edge of the cattails. She imagined she could hear rats squeaking somewhere in the tangle ahead. Finally she picked up a heavy stick, took a deep breath and stepped into the narrow path which twisted through the cattail marsh.

She had thought the marsh covered only a small area; now she became appalled at its size. The path twisted on and on, like some kind of maze laid out to confuse the unwary. Every few yards her feet got wet. At length she had to stop and sit down. There were squeaks and twitterings around her. The eternal sea gulls flapped overhead. Smoke drifted sluggishly skyward. She arose and went on.

Noon found her sitting at the base of a great mound of ashes and trash. The sea gulls still squawked and the sun glared down. The cattail marsh lay far away. She was tired, confused and fearful. The dump area seemed enormous and she had not met a single human being. She had believed, previously, that the dump was mostly a level plateau; now she found to her dismay that it actually consisted of a great many mounds, gullies, ridges and pits. Unless she climbed to the top of a mound, she could not see very far. And even then she could not see down into distant holes and depressions.

She had called out until her voice broke. Now she sat silently. A huge grey-brown rat scurried into sight. Her hand tightened on the stick which she carried. The rat pretended it was nibbling on a paper shred but she knew it was watching her. It did not dart away.

She had a sudden horrible thought of night closing in, of rats by the dozen, by the hundreds, watching her, waiting....

She arose so abruptly the rat took alarm and disappeared. She would have to get out, she told herself. She would return to the marsh, take the little path and go back to the highway. Once there, she would be relatively safe.

But she soon found that she was hopelessly lost. The cattail marsh had vanished. She trudged on with growing apprehension, encountering bigger mounds and deeper gullies. The blazing sun seemed reflected back from every inch of the scorched sour earth. Her head began to ache; she developed a raging, tormenting thirst.

Rats watched her warily. Once a sea gull swung down, surveyed her with its cruel eyes and flapped off silently.

Finally her legs simply gave out. She collapsed weeping. Ralph had gone; they had all gone. She was now convinced that she was alone in the dump. Surely, by now, someone would have seen her, heard her. They had all left; perhaps the State had driven them out.

Shadows were beginning to slant across the gullies by the time she got up. She was dry-eyed, but her legs ached, her eyes smarted and her throat was so parched she could scarcely swallow. When she tried to call out, her voice was only a whisper. Her first terror had passed. Now she felt a kind of calm despair.

Rounding a huge bank of calcified waste, she stopped, frozen. She was feverish, she concluded, dying maybe, for there scant yards away was a group of people, a shack of some sort, a cleared area which was like a little island of orderliness in an ocean of congealed chaos. She stared, unbelieving.

Someone saw her, exclaimed, and the whole group turned to stare at her.

"_Lucy!_"

It was Ralph. He broke from the group, bolted toward her. "Lucy! Lucy! How did you--What on earth--" She was in his arms then and he was laughing and she was crying. She was too exhausted and too thirsty to talk. She simply fell into his arms and he carried her toward the shack. The others crowded around, murmuring sympathetically.

Ralph settled her into a big broken-down armchair under the tin roof. Someone else held out a dipper of cool water, the sweetest water she had ever tasted in her life. Mrs. Morgee appeared with a wet cloth and began bathing her forehead and face. Someone took off her shoes.

In a few minutes she felt so much better, she sat up and looked around at them. Ralph hovered at her side, grinning idiotically. The rest of them only smiled at her, understanding that she did not yet wish to answer questions.

As darkness closed in, someone lit a fire. In a few minutes the aroma of mulligan stew spiced the air. Lucy's mouth watered; she was ravenous, she now realized.

After she had finished a huge bowl of stew, she could scarcely keep her eyes open. Mrs. Morgee led her inside to a cot, helped her undress and got her into bed. Ralph remained outside with the others, around the fire. Explanations could wait until morning.

She had the sensation of melting without effort into a deep, dreamless sleep. She had made up her mind. She would never return to the plastic prefab, the trugrass lawn, the simulated maple tree and the food capsules. She wouldn't be carried away, all alone some morning, in a plastic bag.

She'd never get used to the rats and she didn't like the smoke and the sea gulls, but now she knew there were worse things.

At least she felt alive.

THE TENANTS

That January Madge and I were in desperate need of a rent. Two days before we were due to be evicted--for owner occupancy--we heard about the house in suburban Clarisville.

We got out there as fast as we could, made inquiries and located the woman who owned the house, a Mrs. Dallis, who agreed to show us the property.

The house was an ordinary-looking, white frame, two-story structure located at the far end of a rather sparsely settled street. It needed paint, new wallpaper and several new window panes. A porch step was dangerously cracked and the entire grounds surrounding the house needed a thorough going-over. Also, we would have to sign a two-year lease.

But of course we took it. It was much better than a tent in somebody's back lot.

When we mentioned the eviction hanging over our heads, Mrs. Dallis permitted us to move in immediately. And so it happened that our furniture was already in the house before we actually signed the lease.

A few days later we drove over to Mrs. Dallis' place in Clarisville Center to affix our signatures. She invited us in and was most cordial, but after some preliminary pleasantries there came a slight pause and Mrs. Dallis said, "There is just one thing--"

Our hearts skipped a beat. All along, while rejoicing at our good luck, we had both wondered if there might be some hidden "catch" to the business.

After mentioning the "one thing", Mrs. Dallis sat rather nervously twiddling her fingers. To Madge and I, already on edge, this was anything but reassuring.

Finally our new landlady found her tongue.

"Well," she said, "I won't conceal anything. Some years ago a certain Mrs. Molleman lived in the house you've taken. She was, ah--eccentric. There were conflicting reports concerning her. Some people said she was merely a harmless old lady grown a little bit queer in solitude. Others pictured her as a vindictive, even a cruel, woman. For instance, she kept as pets over a dozen assorted cats and dogs. There were rumors that she did not treat them well. So far as I know those rumors were founded on hearsay."

Mrs. Dallis inspected us closely to see what effect her revelations were having and went on.

"Well, one night, neighbors living at the other end of the street heard a terrific commotion proceeding from Mrs. Molleman's house. The dogs were barking and howling furiously and the cats were screeching. The neighbors were of a mind to investigate, but finally the racket died down, and so they went to sleep instead.

"Two days later however, after no further sound had emanated from the house, the police broke in and discovered a ghastly spectacle. The dozen or so cats and dogs, their throats cut, were found lying dead in pools of their own blood. There was at least one of them in every room in the house. Mrs. Molleman herself was found hanging in the garret. The entire house was a shambles. It looked as if the remaining cats and dogs had gone berserk with the smell of blood after Mrs. Molleman had cut the throats of one or two of them. Apparently she had had to chase them all over the house. Blood was splattered everywhere."

Mrs. Dallis sighed deeply.

"Mrs. Molleman, it was said, killed herself because she learned that she was in the advanced stages of an incurable disease. Certain of the neighbors said she destroyed her pets out of vindictiveness and an evil heart, but the more charitable view is that she did away with them in order that they would not suffer abuse and neglect after she was gone."

Her gruesome revelations apparently at an end, Mrs. Dallis sat back and surveyed us.

Madge, surprisingly, was the first to speak. "It's certainly a terrible little story," she admitted, frowning, "but I don't quite see what it has to do with signing the lease. Neither Jim nor I are superstitious."

Mrs. Dallis nodded. "Good," she said. "Neither am I. But nevertheless it is pertinent to the lease. There has been some strong evidence that on October 20th of each year--the anniversary of that horrible night--certain, ah, manifestations have been observed. Therefore the lease you will sign specifies that from six p.m. to six a.m. on each October 20th, you will remove yourselves from the premises, lock the house securely and remain away."

Madge and I glanced at each other. It was certainly a bizarre requirement, yet I think we were both relieved to learn the details. To remain away from home one night a year was actually no great inconvenience.

We agreed to obey the weird clause and signed the lease at once. After we left, we made light of the matter. We concluded that the "manifestations" existed only in Mrs. Dallis' mind. October was a long way off--and we did have a rent.

That year was a hectic albeit prosperous and happy one and the months flew past. Madge and I were too busy to worry about ghosts of old ladies. We never encountered any in the house and although we occasionally remembered the October 20th clause and joked about it, we were so occupied with other matters we very nearly forgot about the date when it finally did arrive. Mrs. Dallis, however, had foreseen the possibility of that and made provision for it. At five o'clock on the afternoon of October 20th she telephoned to make sure that we were planning to vacate the house by six. We assured her that we would be out in an hour.

Actually, we just did make it. We had neglected to pack an overnight bag till the last minute and, as always, several minor but essential items had to be searched for. After we had checked the locks on the back door and all the windows, we stepped out onto the front porch. I think it was about one-half minute before six p.m. when I turned the key in the front door and we walked down the porch steps.

We made a lark of the affair. We had dinner at a fine restaurant, attended a play, drank cocktails and finally turned in at the hotel room which we had engaged for the occasion.

The next morning Madge sleepily assured me that she had no qualms whatsoever about returning to our house and that she'd consider me a fussbucket if I insisted on leaving early so that I could stop at the place before I left for the office.

I told her I'd go directly from the hotel to work and leave her to contend with any old ghosts that happened to be nursing a hangover on our premises.

Madge is always vague about time early in the morning however, and I did leave the hotel earlier than was necessary. I started driving toward the office, thinking I'd get a head start on some papers which had piled up. But some obscure impulse persuaded me to turn the car and drive toward the suburbs. I felt a bit foolish, but I couldn't argue myself out of stopping at our house for a quick checkup. I have always been grateful that I heeded the dim prompting which caused me to change directions that morning.

When I unlocked the door and walked into the house, everything seemed in order. The windows and rear door were still securely bolted and nothing was amiss. I searched the house from cellar to garret and found nothing disturbed.

Finally, feeling rather sheepish at this point, I sat down in one of the living room chairs to rest a minute before I drove to work.

As I sat there, I noticed some small object protruding from behind the divan on the opposite side of the room. I couldn't distinguish what it was; mild curiosity prompted me to get up and peer behind the divan.

As I bent down, I froze. Huddled against the back of the divan was a pitiful little heap of fur lying in a pool of blood--our cat, Jinko, with his throat slashed wide open. It was the tip of his tail which I had seen protruding.

In our haste to leave the previous evening, we had forgotten about him. We hadn't noticed him in the house and I think we both subconsciously assumed that he was outside when we locked up.

I cleaned up the blood, buried the little creature in a corner of the backyard, poured myself a stiff drink and went to work. Several times during the day I called up to make sure that Madge was all right. She called me a ninny and said she couldn't even find an old shroud dropped around the house.

Of course she got somewhat suspicious in a day or so when Jinko failed to show up. But he had disappeared for days at a time before, and I finally persuaded her that he must have wandered away or met with an accident.

The following summer I saved some of my vacation time; Madge and I spent the entire week of October 20th in Maine. In December I put a down payment on a new house. We moved into it just before the holidays--and one of Madge's Christmas presents was a cuddly little Persian kitten.

She had been teasing me to buy one for months, but somehow I just hadn't got around to it till then.

THE MAN WHO FEARED MASKS

Mr. Apondee was terrified by masks or false faces of any type. Halloween to him was an idiot's festival of unmitigated horror. He would sooner enter a tiger's lair than attend a masked ball. If he saw a false face harmlessly dangling in the window of a novelty shop, he would shudder and turn away. The memory of it would haunt him all evening long--even intrude in his dreams and torment him until he awoke, limp with nightmare panic.

The detailed circumstances surrounding the inception of Mr. Apondee's mask fear were somewhat hazy, since he was scarcely three years old at the time. But the particular moments of terror he remembered vividly, as if they had transpired within his recent adult life.

He was sitting in a huge circus tent with his father. It was his first circus; he was enormously excited, tense, somewhat fearful. He held tight to his father's hand. Suddenly all the lights went out. There were screams, frightened cries, roars, howls and monstrous bellowings. People began pushing and shoving, trying to force passage toward the entrances of the pitch-black tent.

In the whirlwind commotion he lost his grip on his father's hand. He was swept away in a trampling, cursing tide of sweating humanity. He fell down between the seats, screaming, and suddenly out of the darkness appeared a nightmare face, luminous with a green-silvery shine, huge of nose, gashed by great white rubbery lips which writhed with insane merriment. The face bent over him, with its tiny glittering eyes, its fearful pink mouth and its greasy shine.

His screams of a few moments before turned to delirious shrieks of ultimate terror. He remembered nothing more.

Eventually of course the lights went back on and the masked circus clown returned a screaming and hysterical child to its father.

The child screamed all the way out of the circus tent, screamed all the way home and screamed and sobbed half the night, until exhaustion brought hypnotic sleep.

The distressed parents finally forgot the unfortunate incident, but the child never did. In the recesses of his memory a grotesque and hideous mask wavered always just out of sight, awaiting its chance to loom out of the darkness, awaiting the sudden unexpected moment when it would leap into light and petrify him with pure terror.

The show window of a toy store might bring it lunging out at him. He might be swept with acute panic upon glancing up at a billboard advertising a traveling sideshow. Once he nearly fainted on the street when a weirdly masked "Man from Mars"--advertising a local movie--strode around a corner in front of him.

The fear remained with him through his childhood, through his adolescence and on into full maturity. It seemed impervious to the rationalizing of his adult years. It would not be argued away. Its roots had pierced the psychic marrow of his being and resisted all his efforts to wrench them out.

The obsessive fear haunted him to such an extent that he finally consulted a reputable psychiatrist.

The psychiatrist patiently heard him out and then painstakingly explained in simple layman language that his early childhood experience had made an impact on his impressionable, too-vulnerable young mind all out of proportion to its actual importance. He pointed out that the mask fear was far more than a physical one. True, the child had been buffeted by the circus crowd, had been shoved and pushed down between the seats--painfully and perhaps severely bruised. But the fear went deeper than that. When the lights in the circus tent went out, the child had been holding tight to his father's hand. The father represented security, comfort, protection, home. Suddenly the child was hurled into milling blackness and then out of the darkness appeared a hideous leering face which bore down on him with apparent evil intent. So--the psychiatrist explained--in Mr. Apondee's subconscious mind the mask--or any mask--had come to symbolize the loss of security, of stability and protection. It symbolized all of the inherited and acquired fears which lurked in Mr. Apondee's own psychic depths.