Flesh

blanket lay heaped on the floor at the foot of the bed. The top sheet hung off the side of the mattress, almost at the end, but still on the bed, ready to be pulled up in case Alison should grow chilly in the middle of the night.

Roland was still too low to see Alison. He climbed. The bed seemed to descend, and there was Alison, sprawled on her back.

He crouched until he could no longer see her. Staying low, he made his way up the final stairs. On elbows and knees, he crawled over the carpet. He stopped close to the side of the bed.

He listened to Alison’s soft, slow breathing until he was certain she was asleep. Then he stood and looked down at her.

She was bathed in a glow of moonlight. Her nightie seemed glossed with silver except for the areas over her breasts. There, it had no sheen but was transparent. He could see the creamy skin of her breasts, the dark flesh of her nipples.

Roland licked his dry lips.

He could almost feel the nipples in his mouth, almost taste them.

Alison’s pillow rested crooked against the headboard as if she had found it too hot under her head, and shoved it away. Her face was turned toward the window. A few wisps of her hair curled over her pale ear. Her left arm was extended toward Roland, her hand at the very edge of the mattress, palm up, fingers curled. Her other arm lay close to her right side. Her long, bare legs were spread, feet tilted outward. The moon-slicked nightie clung to her thighs.

He bent over, caressed the slick fabric between her legs, pinched a bit of it and lifted, drawing it gently upward.

A hot surge suddenly ripped Roland’s breath away. He shuddered with an agony of need, tugging briefly at the gown before it slipped from his fingers. Alison moaned. Her head turned.

Roland, quaking and fogged but somehow alert in spite of the ecstasy, made a quick grab for her left hand. He slapped the cuff around its wrist. Her arm jerked, yanking the other cuff from Roland’s grip. Gasping, she rolled for the other side of the bed.

He grabbed her shoulder and hip, stopping the roll, pulling until she was on her back again. He threw himself onto her. He straddled her hips. She bucked and writhed beneath him. He caught her right hand as it lashed at his face. He pressed it to the mattress. He tore her tight left hand away from his throat and forced it down. She flung her head from side to side. She crashed a knee into his back. Roland grunted from the impact.

He jerked her cuffed hand down, pinned it under his knee to free his right hand, and punched her hard in the face. She jerked rigid beneath him, then stopped struggling. She made soft whimpering sounds as she gasped for air.

Roland peeled the duct tape off his chin. He pressed it across her mouth. The sounds of her breathing changed to a frantic hiss as she sucked air through her nostrils.

He should cuff her other hand now.

But Alison wasn’t fighting anymore, and he could feel the mounds of her breasts between his thighs. He put his hands on them. The fabric felt like netting. Her skin was hot beneath it.

He no longer heard Alison’s hissing struggle for air.

She was silent.

Roland squeezed her breasts.

Her right hand rose off the bed slowly. Suspicious, he watched it. It pressed his hand more tightly to her breast and held it there. She squirmed a little and moaned.

My God, Roland thought. What’s going on? Does she like it?

Her hand moved upward, caressing his arm, curling gently over his shoulder. She stroked the hair on the side of his head. She stroked his cheek.

The shriek drove spikes into Alison’s ears. Her wrist was grabbed and forced down and her thumb popped out of his eye socket with a wet sucking sound. He didn’t try to hold her. He clapped a hand to his face and swayed above her.

Alison thrust his knees upward. He tumbled onto the mattress between her legs. She rammed her feet against him, turning him and shoving him away, then kicked a leg high over his body and flung herself off the bed.

She ripped the tape from her face as she backed away. In the moonlight, Roland’s naked body looked gray and cadaverous. He was writhing, clutching his face, digging his heels into the mattress and thrusting his pelvis up as he squealed.

Alison whirled around. She grabbed the railing and rushed down the dark stairway. At the bottom, she tried to call out to warn Helen but her voice came out like a choked whisper. She ran through the hallway, rounded the corner, threw open Helen’s door and slapped the light switch.

“Helen!”

Helen, under the covers, didn’t move.

Alison hurried toward her. “Quick! We gotta…Roland’s upstairs…attacked me!” She jerked the covers down and Helen stared dull eyed through crooked glasses. Her face was torn, scraped, and swollen. Her chin had a crust of dried mess. Alison squeezed the dull, gray-blue skin of her shoulder.

“Helen!” She shook the shoulder. Helen’s head wobbled slightly. Her huge breasts quivered. “Helen, come on!”

Alison let go of the shoulder. The skin stayed dented where her fingers had been.

Numb, Alison backed away.

He’d killed Helen.

No. This was some kind of a sick joke. Helen isn’t dead. Not Helen. It’s a joke.

She’s dead.

Alison backed through the doorway. She looked toward the dark hall. “You bastard!” she cried out.

And heard quick thuds of footfalls on the attic stairs. They triggered a blast of white-hot fear that sent Alison running to the door. She flung it open, lunged outside, slammed it, and fled down the stairs. The painted wood of the steps was wet with dew and slick under her bare feet, so she slowed down, dreading a fall that might give Roland a chance to catch her. Four steps from the bottom, she leaped. She dropped through the chill night air, her nightgown bellowing up, and landed staggering over the flagstones and grass.

She looked back. Roland wasn’t on the stairs. Stepping sideways, she saw that the door at the top was still shut.

She hurried past the stairs to Professor Teal’s door. His kitchen was dark beyond the glass panes. She tried the knob. The door was locked, so she pounded the wood hard, shaking the door. “Dr. Teal!” she shouted. Then she yelled, “Fire! Fire!” She hammered the door. The kitchen still was dark. With a flick of her right hand, she caught the dangling cuff, clenched it in her fist like a knuckle duster and smashed the glass. She reached in, being careful not to rip her arm on the pointed blades of glass, and turned the knob. With the door ajar, she eased her arm out.

She glanced toward the stairway. Still no Roland.

She shoved the door open. The glass shards on the floor clinked and scraped as the bottom of the door swept over them. Clinging to the doorjamb, Alison swung inside and stretched out a leg as far as she could before placing her foot down. She felt no glass under it. With her weight on that foot, she pivoted and found herself clear of the door. She bent over, fingered its edge, and whipped it shut.

A sudden light blinded Alison.

Squinting, she whirled around.

Under the entry, cane raised like a club, stood Dr. Teal. His white hair was mussed. He wore baggy, striped pajamas. Frowning, he blinked and his mouth started to move.

“Turn off the light,” Alison commanded in a sharp whisper.

He didn’t ask questions, just hit the light switch.

Alison turned away from him and stared out the door windows.

Still, no Roland.

“He killed Helen,” she said. “He…I hurt him but he’s up there.”