The Shore (Leisure Fiction)

identifying the object in her path as she caught herself. No. The chair lay on its side, and her hand went to the bent wheel. 'Oh no, please.' She felt around on the floor. 'Charlotte, it's me.' In the parlor, the smell of damp soot tinged the air.

For a second, she thought the storm had destroyed the room, but when she tugged at the curtain cord, the torrent pounded against intact glass. A flash of lightning made the wreckage lurch with shadows. Only then did she realize that everything around her looked dry, despite the smell of wet ashes from the fireplace. Her glance wandered numbly across the broken knickknacks littering the floor, the torn cushions, overturned table. 'Charlotte, can't you hear me? Are you hiding?'

She raced back to the stairs. 'Charlotte, it's a hurricane! We have to get out of here!' Above her head, floorboards creaked. 'Are you upstairs? How did you get up there?' She put one foot up on the stairs, but solid blackness stopped her. 'I'm coming,' she whispered. 'Wait.' Stepping down, she felt her way back toward the kitchen. 'I'm coming.' Rain slapped at her face when she pushed open the kitchen door. Both windows had gone, and the dripping curtains dangled like knotted ropes. A fiery light in the sky seemed to flare through the broken glass. Yanking open the utility drawer, she felt for a flashlight, then raced back to the hall.

'Charlotte?' The beam slipped up one stair after another, finally dissolving. 'Are you there?' She took a step. Somewhere, a shutter banged rhythmically. She climbed.

Behind her, a hinge creaked.

Her head turned in agonized twitches. Below her in the hallway, shadows swirled, filling the house like water. The creak sounded again. Insistent. The door to the cellar swayed slightly in the draft.

She'd look for shelter. As she descended, her feet felt strangely heavy. It's easier for her to go down than up. And the storm is so loud. That's why she can't hear me. She pulled the cellar door open wide. 'Charlotte! Charlotte, it's me. Are you all right?'

The smell floated like dust.

Oh God, not rats. Not here.

Retreating from the beam, the gloom swung about her. Rotting plaster had crumbled away from the walls, exposing slats furred with cobwebs, and she thrust the flashlight forward like a weapon. Her holster chafed at her side, and the stairs creaked damply beneath her tread. Peering about, she clutched at the dusty banister.

Sheeted furniture loomed like fun house ghosts, and crates blocked the walls. More of her husband's memorabilia. A whole museum's worth. From the back, a muddy dimness shimmered back at her.

Just a mirror. She moved closer, choking on the must that hung in the air.

The sheet puddled on the crumbling concrete, dirty water already seeping through, and the beam trembled over the heap in the corner.

No. But she recognized the dress. And she knew death when she saw it.

My fault. She moaned softly at the crooked position of the legs. I should have been here. Something sparkled. On the bureau. Dazedly, she tilted the flashlight back: the silver frame flashed softly.

portrait of Charlotte's husband what's it doing down here Charlotte will be so upset she

A dark lump occupied the shelf beside it, and she angled the light farther. It took her a long moment to comprehend.

What remained of the face still bore an expression of outrage.

It made a sound like nothing he'd ever imagined--a hollow, roaring whine that thudded against the walls until the whole building lurched and clattered. It seemed to possess actual shape, this noise, a terrible spinning circularity, constant and without contour. Still the roar grew shriller, and pressure gushed against the walls.

At first, he'd tried to take notes, scribbling incoherently in the flickering dimness, until the notebook dropped from his fingers, the pen rolling. No heat. He couldn't feel his arms or legs. Never any heat in this room. He'd pulled the blanket from the bed and wrapped it around himself, but the chill sank deep, and the blanket sagged away from his shoulders. He couldn't move to adjust it, could only twitch when the floor rocked, and his mind seemed to drift in a howling void.

The room settled into a deeper layer of gloom. Rain drilled at the glass in random flashes, and he felt a muffled rumble, as of something being dragged across the floor above. Did the room brighten perceptibly? He seemed to feel a tightening in his chest, as though he'd surfaced too quickly from the depths, and ripples of light disturbed the ceiling. No longer solid, the walls seemed to quiver, pulsating like the flesh of some huge, shivering beast. He focused with perfect clarity on a spider that scuttled along the opposite wall. Pale. Nearly translucent. Suffused with the green throb of life. He watched it sink gently into dimness.

The boy has to die. His mind seemed very clear. It has to end. The howling tore the world, leaving a hole that sucked him in and spun him down to a familiar nothingness. Memories swirled, slowly engulfing him, and he floundered, desperately trying to grasp at one thought, only one, that might no longer have the power to wound him. He found nothing. The storm drummed in the floor, and in tiny lurches, the painting of the sea beat rhythmically against the wall.

Thunder shuddered the window--it startled him, and a moment passed before he understood why. He'd heard it. He'd heard the glass rattle.

The surging din of the storm had begun to diminish. A resonating groan, like the death agony of a whale, rumbled through the walls, and the pattering of rain flooded the room with noise. He had no idea how much time had passed. Trying to make out his watch, he stood, clutching the blanket, then wobbled to the window, the floor like ice on his bare feet. He pressed his face to the pane, and the glare of lightning froze falling silver that glittered at a rapid angle. A quick look downward made him gasp.

The world glinted in a solid shimmer...as though the old hotel had been carried out to sea.

XXIV

Water seethed, mottling the glass. He cracked the door and blinked as daylight flooded the foyer. Now or never. A chill whistled in. Small waves rippled over the front step as he pushed the door wider. For a moment, the impression of ubiquitous movement disoriented him. Rain pelted straight down into broad puddles that covered the sidewalk, and spinning rivulets connected those puddles to deeper pools in the street. Streams gurgled around the corner, and a dented stop sign rattled.

He'd already checked the back. The parking lot had become a small lake--no sign of the Volks. Guess they do float after all.

Adjusting the hood of the slicker, he pulled the door closed behind him and stood with his back pressing the glass. Beneath the slicker, which he'd found after kicking down the door to the D'Amato apartment, he wore his leather jacket, two sweaters and the heaviest shirt he could find in D'Amato's closet. He could barely move his arms. At least it's not so cold now. Shuddering, he snapped the top clasp of the slicker. Not really.

A swatch of gelatinous seaweed raveled on the stairs beneath him. The shocking chill of water seeped through the heavy rubber boots--also D'Amato's--and right through the doubled socks. Rain dripped heavily from the slicker. Clutching the rail, he surveyed the flooded block. In the streets, water looked knee-deep, but the pavements on this side seemed only partially submerged. Across the street, tiny waves lapped at the other hotel, cresting on the stairs. Wind slapped wetly.

Splashing down onto the sidewalk, he tried to keep to the higher patches of concrete as he headed into town. He ducked under doorways, staying as close as he could to the dubious shelter of buildings, grasping at every rail and post. Freezing water trickled into his boots before he'd made it to the corner, and his pants felt like ice at the knees.

Monsters. Like an alien spider, a crab-thing with impossibly long legs splayed across the sidewalk. Nearby, a flattened creature the color of clay sprawled in a puddle: it appeared to have fleshy wings. By the curb, a mass of tentacles bulged. Everywhere.

A twisted street lamp tilted above the flow. Jutting with bricks and mortar, a fragment of chimney dominated the center of a shallow pool, and a drainpipe raveled across the pavement. Like some huge ruined umbrella, a