But the butler had walked into the kitchen and did not hear him.
Stormy Stormy strode out of the dining room into the sitting room. He was determined not to simply fall into line and do whatever Billingham told him to do. That snotty servant had rubbed him the wrong way even as a child, and while he'd always been afraid of and intimidated by him, he'd always resented it. He wasn't about to capitulate now, to give in and give up and blindly follow orders.
If anything, he was more determined than ever to stand up to the butler and the House.
Butchery.
He kept thinking of the movie.
He kept thinking about a lot of movies. Now that he knew the world wasn't going to end, he was anxious to get the hell out of here and get back to work. He didn't know how long he'd been here--with the wacky time that seemed to affect this place, who could tell?--but even if it had just been a day or two, he needed to get back. He had things to do. He had the Taos festival to prepare for.
Had he been reported missing? he wondered. Were people looking for him? Would anybody be able to find him?
Doubtful. He didn't know where he was himself. To paraphrase Dorothy, he had the feeling he wasn't in Chicago anymore.
He wondered if the dead who had come back to life were still hanging around the reservation. Or if his return home and the fact that the House was once again occupied had put a stop to that. Had they disappeared, the living dead? Had they simply fallen in their tracks?
Had they rotted away and turned to dust like Dracula?
He hoped Rodman had been out there with his camera, documenting it. It would make a hell of a film.
He had to get out of here. He had to escape.
But what if the butler was right? What if he was the only thing protecting the world, the universe, from demons and monsters, from this 'Other Side.' Didn't he owe it to ... to humanity to do everything he could to--how did Billingham put it--'maintain the barrier'?
No.
There were bound to be people willing to give up their lives for this, to devote all of their time for the greater good. The same people who joined the Peace Corps and spent all of their free time helping the homeless.
But he was not one of them.
He knew it was selfish, but he had things he wanted to do, too. He had his own life to live. Let Billingham find someone else to staff his fucking House. From what Stormy could tell, all that was needed was a warm body.
Anyone would do. It didn't have to be him. He wasn't bringing any special skills or abilities to the table.
Stormy glanced back toward the dining room. The first question he had to ask himself was: Did he believe Billingham about the House?
Yes.
He didn't know why--he'd seen no evidence to support the butler's wild claims--but he supposed it was because he'd experienced his own examples of that other world bleeding into this one. And Billingham offered an easy one-stop explanation.
Time for the next question: Who was Billingham ? What was he?
That one was a little harder.
Maybe he was God.
God was his family's servant? He found that hard to believe.
But it worked from an objective, interpretive standpoint.
If this was a film, the girl would obviously represent the devil, evil, temptation. You didn't have to be Antonioni to figure that out.
And that would make Billingham God.
No, Stormy thought. He didn't buy it. The butler clearly didn't know about the girl.
But maybe he wasn't the final word here. Maybe he was a good guy, but the power didn't rest with him.
Maybe he and the girl were both puppets.
With the House pulling the strings.
Stormy took a deep breath. The first thing he had to determine was what he wanted to do. Obviously, Billingham was not very forthcoming on these subjects. He didn't think he was going to get a whole lot more out of him than what he'd gotten already. So should he confront the butler or go around him? Should he accept fate and do as he was told--or try to escape?
Stormy picked up a lamp off the small table next to the love seat and yanked out its extension cord.
He voted for escape.
He threw the lamp at the front window as hard as he could. He expected it to either break the glass or bounce back, but instead it disappeared into the window, as though it were sinking in a pool of water --and instantly appeared back on the table.
He glanced wildly around the room, found a marble cameo box in the center of the long coffee table, picked it up, and heaved it with all of his might at the window.
Same result.
Fuck it. Billingham had told him to explore, and he was going to explore, goddamn it. And he'd find another way out of here if it killed him.
He remembered what the butler had said: / think you'll be surprised.
A chill passed through him.
He ignored it, pushed all reservations to the back of his mind. Where should he start?
The doors. He'd tried to get out through the front door almost immediately after he'd arrived, but he hadn't tried it since. And if he remembered right, there was a side door off the kitchen and a door leading from the den to the back porch.
If that didn't work, he'd start with the basement and work his way up.
He walked out of the sitting room into the entryway.
The front door was still locked. Not just locked. Frozen.
The latch on the handle did not rattle, and there was not even the slightest give as he tried to yank the door open.
Billinghamwas in the kitchen, humming to himself, some song that nagged onStormy's brain with its familiarity but which he could not quite place, so he left that one for later and went into the den.
It had been a long time since he'd been in this room, but he remembered it perfectly: its look, its smell, the way sunlight seemed to die somewhere along the way from the windows to the dark wood walls. Even the books on the shelves were exactly as he remembered them--he recognized the titles.
The den windows had looked out onto the extensive gardens in the backyard, but the windows now looked out on nothing. Light came through them, clear bright light obviously generated by the sun, but it appeared to be either smoggy or foggy behind the glass and there was only white and only light and no detail of the world beyond could be made out.
He increased the speed of his step as he approached the back door. He reached for the knob, and it turned in his hand. It was unlocked.
He opened the door.
And stepped over the threshold to the Other Side.
It was not at all what he'd expected. There were no ghosts or animated corpses, no black sky or barren landscape, no skeletons or witches or drooling befanged demons. Instead, he was in a house structurally identical to the one he had just left, but with all of its insides scooped out. There were no rooms or staircases or hallways or interior walls, just a giant, single three-story room that took up the entire building. Its unadorned interior was a color that had no counterpart in the known universe, an entirely new hue that bore no relation to red, yellow, blue, black, white, or any of the colors of the spectrum. High above, clouds floated near the top of the three gables, the whitish wisps floating back and forth just beneath the ceiling, as if searching for a way out.
