The man’s gaze continued to travel over the walls, the ceiling, and his face wrenched with grievous emotion, as though his perplexity must be rapidly collapsing into a more profound confusion, his powers of perception, memory, and reason slipping away from him.
“I killed them all. The mister and the missus, the children, the staff.”
On consideration, Kirby saw that the suit of evening clothes was not an ordinary tuxedo. It looked more like stylish livery, a uniform that a highly placed servant might wear.
“They were infected, I’m sure of it, so I had to kill them all, even the beautiful children, God help me, I had to kill them all to save the world.”
Overcome by a sudden sense of mortal peril, heart knocking, Kirby backed away from the man, toward the door to the north stairs.
The butler, if that’s what he was, seemed to have no interest in Kirby, to have no malice left. He said, “Now I’ve got to get more ammunition so I can kill myself.” As he crossed the hallway, he began to grow translucent, as if he’d never been real, only an apparition. He disappeared through the wall, into the Hawks apartment.
Although Kirby didn’t believe in ghosts, this might have been one—except for the blood that had dripped off the man’s hands and now stained the hallway runner.
They couldn’t use the elevator because it was all wrong and there was a big bug in it or something that almost got his hand, and they were afraid of the stairs, so he and his mom took a time-out in the Sykes apartment because there seemed to be nowhere else to go.
Winny knew Mrs. Sykes just from saying hello to each other when they passed in the hallway or down in the lobby, and he knew who Iris was except she never said hello. Iris, who was three years older than Winny, couldn’t tolerate people, not because she thought they were stupid or mean or boring—though a lot of them were—but because she had autism. Winny’s mother said that most of the time, Iris couldn’t bear to be touched and that pretty much all of the time she became really upset if too many people were around. He kind of understood autism because he’d read a little about it, but he
From the way that Mrs. Sykes snapped the thumb-turns of both deadbolts, rattled the security chain in place, and then tested the door to be sure it was locked even though it obviously was, Winny knew that something creepy had recently happened to her, too, and that she was scared.
“Maybe I’m just locking something in with us,” Mrs. Sykes said, “not locking anything out. Anyway, if they can just go through walls, what good is a lock?”
Winny’s mom looked at him, and he made a half-goofy face so she wouldn’t see how much Mrs. Sykes spooked him. Whatever was happening, this was going to be a serious test of his strategies for avoiding the wimp-sissy label.
“I need to show you something,” Mrs. Sykes said. “I hope it’s still there. Or maybe I don’t. No, I do. I hope it’s there. Because if you see the damn thing, too, then I’ll know I’m not losing my mind.”
Winny made another half-goofy face at his mother, but this time it didn’t seem appropriate, as it had been only a moment earlier. Now he not only didn’t know what to say; he also didn’t know what to do with his face, or with his hands for that matter. He put his hands in his jacket pockets, but his face just hung out there for everyone to see.
Leading them across the living room, Mrs. Sykes realized that Iris wasn’t following. The girl just stood there, staring off into space, her hands fisted at her sides. Her mother spoke to her in an odd way that seemed like she was reciting lines of a poem: “ ‘Don’t be frightened. Come with me and don’t be frightened. I’m glad that I can take you to show you the way.’ ”
This time, Iris came with them, though she stayed a few steps behind. They went along a hallway and into a bedroom that must have belonged to her because it was in girl colors and stuffed toys were perched everywhere. Most of the toys were bunnies, a few frogs, a few silly birds, and one dopey squirrel, all plush and soft, none of them animals that, in the real world, had sharp teeth and killed other animals.
Winny was surprised to see so many books, because he thought some autistic kids never read well, maybe not at all. Evidently, Iris read a lot. He knew why. Books were another life. If you were shy and didn’t know what to say and felt you didn’t belong anywhere, books were a way to lead another life, a way to be someone else entirely, to be anyone at all. Winny didn’t know what he would do without his books, except probably go berserk and start killing people and making ashtrays out of their skulls even though he didn’t smoke and never would.
“It’s still there,” Mrs. Sykes said, pointing to a window.
A freaky thing clung to the glass panes in the rain: roughly the shape of a football although bigger, but flat on the bottom, with too many stumpy legs that looked like they were made for walking on another planet, and a face more human than not, except that the face was in its belly.
Part of Winny’s strategy for avoiding a reputation as a sissy was never to look away from the screen during a scary movie. Never ever. He always managed to keep his eyes on even the most gruesome action by conducting a commentary in his head, making fun of bad acting when he saw it, ridiculing idiotic dialogue, and mocking lousy special effects. Often tongue-tied with others, he could chatter nonstop when talking to himself. He also judged every psycho killer or monster on his take-a-dump-in-your-pants-and-run scale, on which the highest score was ten stars. But by being the toughest possible critic, he found that he could diminish the fright effect of any creature that had ever crept across a movie screen, and he never awarded more than six stars, which wasn’t even a pee- in-your-pants score.
The thing on the window was a seven.
He didn’t pee in his pants, however, and even though his mom cried out in shock and disgust when she saw the creeper, even though Mrs. Sykes said something about it being a mescaline dream, whatever that might be, Winny didn’t make a sound to reveal the fear that quickened through him.
Iris helped him to keep his composure. She didn’t say anything or make eye contact or even move from beside her bed, from which she had snatched a plush-toy bunny with big floppy ears. But her face was tight with anxiety, and she looked so vulnerable that Winny worried more about her than about himself. He didn’t think she had seen the thing on the window, because she wouldn’t make eye contact with him or with anyone, let alone with a
