What the Night Knows (with bonus novella Darkness Under the Sun)

black wings, scapulars, and tail feathers, as if the bird were a spill of ink that wrote the boy’s future on the wind.

He hurried to the oak door, threw it open, and raced down the winding stairs. His footfalls were the drumming of a dragon heart, his urgent breathing echoing gustily off coiled-stone walls, like exhalations of fire.

Although he had long slept by day and lived in the late night, the easier to avoid the others whose company he was denied, he had never ventured from the house and the most immediate of the grounds. The time had come, the raven with its offer, the night and all its possibilities.

On these 280 acres were meadows and deep woods. Vales and hills. Rock formations and caves. Two streams and a pond. Although he could not set foot off the estate, before him waited a fenced world ripe for exploration.

And because the family and the servants slept, they would dream on unaware of how far he roamed and of what he did. He might do anything, anything, and they would think he walked the public rooms of the house or huddled in his tower, if they thought of him at all.

Always, he had been a shambler or a tottler, a clumsy construct of knobby joints and crude bones, stilting along in a praying-mantis gait. But suddenly in this night, racing across the east lawn in the wake of the liberating raven, the boy discovered a strange grace in his ungainly body.

Although, in the movies, the grim reaper was nothing but bones within his robe and cowl—as in Jillian Hathaway’s famous Circle of Evil—the harvesting spirit was shown to move effortlessly, to flow, to glide as if skating on a slick of blood. Now, as the raven circled over the boy, carving the fat moon with its pinions, he too flowed, glided, skated across the lawn, into a meadow, toward the woods.

The boy was not yet me. He had one thing to learn and one thing to do. Then he would become the man that I am now.

19

THE RAIN DIMINISHED DURING THE NIGHT AND ENDED AS dawn broke. By the time John turned off the county highway onto the beech-lined approach road that served the state hospital, the cloud cover was worn thin, but it was nowhere threadbare enough to reveal blue sky.

On the hilltop, the institution huddled fortresslike, its parapeted roof resembling battlements, its windows wider than arrow loops in a castle wall but not by much, as though the place had been designed to defend against the sanity of the outside world rather than to keep its disturbed or even insane patients from wreaking havoc beyond its walls.

He parked under the portico again and displayed his POLICE placard on the dashboard.

On the telephone hours earlier, Dennis Mummers, who manned the third-floor security desk during the graveyard shift, said something about Billy Lucas that required this second visit. When John asked about the boy’s reaction to the search of his room, the guard’s response did not at first seem significant. Later, it did.

He didn’t say anything. Something’s happened to him. He kind of cratered. He’s funked out, withdrawn, not talking at all to anyone.

Karen Eisler, smelling of break-time cigarettes and wintermint breath freshener, entered John in the log at the reception desk.

Because he had spoken to Coleman Hanes en route, not more than twenty minutes earlier, the orderly did not have to be paged. He was waiting when John arrived.

In the elevator, Hanes said, “I’d still prefer you saw him in the conference room, like yesterday.”

“If he’s in total withdrawal, a wall of armored glass between us only makes my job harder.”

“I can’t leave anyone alone with him in his room, as much for his protection as for the visitor’s.”

“No problem. Stay with us.”

“We’ve put him in restraints for your visit. I don’t think it’s necessary, the way he is now, but it’s the rule.”

In the security vestibule, John surrendered his service pistol.

Walking the third-floor hall, Hanes said, “He stopped eating last evening. This morning, he’s refused liquids. If this keeps up, we’ll have to force-feed him. That’s an ugly thing.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“It’s still damn ugly.”

Billy’s room—pale-blue walls, white ceiling, white tile floor—contained a safely upholstered chair without tufting or welting and a yard-square molded-plastic table tall enough for dining. A four-foot-wide concrete shelf protruding from a wall served as a bed, made comfortable with a thick foam mattress.

Lying on his back, head propped on two pillows, Billy did not react when they entered.

The restraints consisted of nylon-mesh netting that wrapped his torso, keeping his arms crossed on his chest, and between his ankles a trammeling strap to which the upper-body netting was secured.

John stood over Billy for a moment, hoping not to see what he expected to see, but he saw it at once, and the sight so affected him that his legs grew weak and he sat on the edge of the bed.

Coleman Hanes closed the door and stood with his back to it.

The boy’s once fiery eyes were burnt out, still blue but as without depth as the glass orbs of a cheap doll, lacking their former intensity of feeling, their challenge and arrogance. Billy stared at the ceiling, but perhaps he did not see it. Although he blinked from time to time, he never changed focus, his steady stare like that of a blind man lost in thought.

His face remained as smooth as before. But his fresh-cream complexion had in less than a day curdled into a pallor. A gray tint shadowed the skin in the hollows of his eyes, as if those two fierce flames, now extinguished, had produced a residue of ashes.

His hair looked vaguely damp, perhaps with sweat, and his pale forehead appeared greasy.

“Billy?” John said. “Billy, do you remember me?”

The gaze remained fixed, not on the ceiling but on something in another place, another time.

“Yesterday, the voice was yours, Billy, the voice but not the words.”

The boy’s mouth hung open slightly, as though he had exhaled his final breath and waited with the patience of the dead for a mortician to sew his parted lips together.

“Not the words and not the hatred.”

Body as limp as a cadaver prior to rigor mortis, Billy did not strain whatsoever against the restrictive netting.

“You were just a boy when he … walked in. Now you’re just a boy again. You see? I understand. I know.”

Billy’s silence and stillness signified not mere indifference, but instead a mortal apathy born of despair, a retreat from all feeling and all hope.

“You were the glove. He was the hand. He has no further use for you. He never will.”

How strange it felt to say these things, almost stranger than believing them.

“I wish I knew why you instead of someone else. What made you vulnerable?”

Even if one shiny fragment of the boy remained among the crazed ruins on the dark floor of his mind, even if one day he cared to live and if he spoke again coherently, he might not know why or how he had become an instrument of destruction in the service of the thing—all right, say it, the corrupted spirit—that had once been Alton Turner Blackwood.

“If you, why not anyone?” John wondered, thinking forward to the tenth of December, three months hence, when he might need to defend his family against the entire world. Anyone he encountered might be the glove in which the monstrous hand was next concealed. “If you … why not me?”

His biggest fear was not that something otherworldly had come home with him the previous day.

His biggest fear was that some flaw or weakness in himself would prove to be a door through which he might be entered as easily as a murderer, with a glass cutter, could enter a locked house.

To Billy he said, “You must be very broken now. He wouldn’t leave you whole. One good boy in a million pieces.”