The Collection

Something else was doing this.

I took only my wallet, leaving everything else, afraid even my clothes could be contaminated, and spent the morn­ing looking for a motel. I found one close to the library, and I spent the afternoon among the stacks of books, reading everything I could about poltergeists and TK and the super­natural.

I ate alone in the coffee shop across the street from the motel, staring through the plate glass window next to my table at the black square window of my room. I thought of white sheets climbing up the cold glass, shutting in the room from the outside world, and I shivered. Maybe I would spend the night in the car.

But no. I was being paranoid. There was no way the ... whatever it was ... could track me there.

It was dark when I returned to my room, and even in the antiseptic light of the motel lamp, the two long pillows on the bed appeared somewhat threatening. 'Better safe than sorry,' I mumbled to myself. And I threw the pillows in the bathroom and closed the door.

In my dream, a gorgeous woman, the most perfect I'd ever seen, offered me her body. I hemmed and hawed, nerv­ous, not believing that such a woman would desire me, but she pushed me onto my back and began unbuttoning my shirt. She unbuckled my pants, pulled them down, then slipped out of her own clothes, revealing a body surpassing even the high expectations generated by her beautiful face and covered figure. She lowered herself onto me, kissing me, pressing against me, moaning with passion, promising pleasure. It was the most realistic dream I'd ever had, and definitely the most arousing. I awoke on the brink of or­gasm, feeling as though I was still inside her, feeling her still-thrusting her hips with me.

And I saw the pillow pushing rhythmically against my crotch.

In one instant, my glance took in the open bathroom door, the pillow pulsing between my legs and the other pil­low moving up the bed toward my face. I was too confused to react spontaneously. I knew the pillows were having their way with me, but in my sleepbound mind I saw the gorgeous face and figure of my dream lover.

I came, ejaculating heavily into the pillow, which sud­denly increased its movement. I threw the pillow off me, and it landed on the carpet, glinting wetly in the diffused light from the bathroom. I grabbed the other pillow and heaved it against the wall.

I was breathing heavily, both with panic and with the ex­ertion of my sexual activity. Other than my breathing, the room was silent.

I could hear the pillow perfectly.

'Good,' it whispered, its seductive voice sounding sated. 'So good.'

Sickened, appalled by what had just transpired, feeling both guilty and victimized, I put on my pants and dashed out of the room to my car. I locked the doors and sat unmoving in the dark, listening to my own breathing and the sound of my heart, trying to stop my hands from shaking.

Good.

So good.

The clock in my car said it was twelve thirty. I was tired, but I could not sleep. I stayed there, unmoving, wide-awake, until dawn. At a little past three, a square white shape inched its way up the side of the motel room window. Moonlight glinted off my semen, and I felt like vomiting.

I wanted to kill the pillow.

But how can you kill a piece of cloth filled with stuffing?

My vacation was almost over, and I realized that I'd have to return to work in three days. Where would I live? How could I live, knowing that whenever I tried to sleep, my pil­lows would try to attack me?

Have sex with me.

Kill me.

Rape me.

I knew, deep down, that the pillows meant to do me no physical harm. But what they did want to do was so terrify­ing, so perversely alien, that I could not think about it. I could not handle it. So I stared at the window and tried to figure out my next move. The rational ideas I discarded al­most immediately. Rationality was not a legitimate defense against the irrational. What was next? An exorcist? Spiritu­alist? Faith healer?

When dawn arrived and the coffee shop opened up across the street, I went in for some breakfast. I ordered hash browns and eggs with orange juice. I stared at my plate after the waitress brought it, and I could think of no way to escape from this horror. No matter where I went, no matter what I did, this would continue. I knew that, even if I slept alone on a hard park bench, some article of cloth would find me and attack me.

Rape me.

I took a bite of my egg and used the napkin to wipe my mouth.

'Thank you,' the cloth whispered.

I dropped the white napkin and stared at it. It looked for all the world like a miniature pillow. As I stared, I noticed that one of the creases looked almost like a smile. A smile of unbridled lust. I felt no shock, though. I felt no terror. I was too jaded for that. I'd gone through too much.

I looked down at the napkin, then across the street at the motel. In the bright light of early morning, I could clearly see the white squares against the motel room glass. But they no longer seemed like they were waiting to pounce. They no longer seemed malevolent.

They seemed forlorn.

Like they were waiting for me to come home.

I picked up the napkin. It was soft and silken. 'Kiss me,' it whispered. 'Touch me.' I looked across the street at the motel room window, and I found myself becoming aroused.

What was it they did to help people get over their fears? Made them face those fears? Made them confront their problems? I knew there was no way I could escape from the pillows. I would have to meet them head on.

The waitress brought my check, which I paid. I waited until she left the room before standing so she wouldn't see my erection.

I walked back across the street and stood for a moment in front of the window. The two pillows were pressed against the glass. The one which had taken advantage of me the night before looked soiled, dirty, and disgusting, covered with a crust of dried semen. But the other pillow, long and white, soft and supple, looked clean and fresh and innocent.

Inviting.

I licked my dry lips, thought for a moment, and took the key out of my pocket.

I went into the room and closed the door behind me.

Maya's Mother

I wrote the story 'Bumblebee' for Richard Chizmar's anthology Cold Blood. A horror story set in contem­porary Phoenix with a noirish detective for a protago­nist, it was written quickly. I cashed my check when payment arrived, shelved the book when I got it, and promptly forgot about the piece.

But readers didn't.

I don't think Cold Blood sold particularly well, but more than any other story I've written, 'Bumblebee' has inspired fans to write and ask for a sequel. I finally wrote one many years later for the paperback magazine Palace Corbie. It was titled 'The Piano Player Has No Fingers' (all of the stories in that issue were titled 'The Piano Player Has No Fingers'; the gimmick for the issue was that all contributors would write a story using that as the title). I thought that would be the end of it, but still the requests kept coming.

So for those of you who asked, here's another one.

***

It was hot as I drove through the desert to the Big Man's. The place was out past Pinnacle Peak and at one time had probably been the only house out there, but now the city was creeping in, and there were only a few miles of open space between the last subdivision and the dirt road that led to the Big Man's compound.

I turned onto the unmarked drive, slowing down, peering through my dusty windshield. The Big Man had made no ef­fort to landscape his property, but there was a lot more out here than just cacti and rocks. Doll parts were hanging on the barbed wire fence: arm and leg, torso and head. Mesquite crosses stood sentry by the cattle guard. A blood-drenched scarecrow with a coyote skull on its shoulders faced the road, arms raised.

I hadn't expected him to be so spooked—or at least not so superstitious—and I was starting to get a little