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“Yes! Now!”
The young man yanked the switch. The machine hummed, roared, blazed with power.
“Oh,” said the old man, shutting his eyes. His mouth smiled gently. “Yes.”
His head fell forward on his chest.
Shumway yelled, banged the switch off and leaped forward to tear at the straps binding the old man in his device.
In the midst of so doing, he stopped, felt the time traveler’s wrist, put his fingers under the neck to test the pulse there and groaned. He began to weep.
The old man had, indeed, gone back in time, and its name was death. He was traveling in the past now, forever.
Shumway stepped back and turned the machine on again. If the old man were to travel, let the machine—symbolically, anyway—go with him. It made a sympathetic humming. The fire of it, the bright sun fire, burned in all of its spider grids and armatures and lighted the cheeks and the vast brow of the ancient traveler, whose head seemed to nod with the vibrations and whose smile, as he traveled into darkness, was the smile of a child much satisfied.
The reporter stood for a long moment more, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands. Then, leaving the machine on, he turned, crossed the room, pressed the button for the glass elevator and, while he was waiting, took the time traveler’s tapes and cassettes from his jacket pockets and, one by one, shoved them into the incinerator trash flue set in the wall.
The elevator doors opened, he stepped in, the doors shut. The elevator hummed now, like yet another time device, taking him up into a stunned world, a waiting world, lifting him up into a bright continent, a future land, a wondrous and surviving planet.…
That one man with one lie had created.
Trapdoor (#ulink_4b460e3f-862b-5e4f-9cbb-c8917e634e35)
Clara Peck had lived in the old house for some ten years before she made the strange discovery. Halfway upstairs to the second floor, on the landing, in the ceiling—
The trapdoor.
“Well, my God!”
She stopped dead, midstairs, to glare at the surprise, daring it to be true.
“It can’t be! How could I have been so blind? Good grief, there’s an attic in my house!”
She had marched up and downstairs a thousand times on a thousand days and never seen.
“Damned old fool.”
And she almost tripped going down, having forgotten what she had come up for in the first place.
Before lunch, she arrived to stand under the trapdoor again, like a tall, thin, nervous child with pale hair and cheeks, her too bright eyes darting, fixing, staring.
“Now I’ve discovered the damn thing, what do I do with it? Storage room up there, I bet. Well—”
And she went away, vaguely troubled, feeling her mind slipping off out of the sun.
“To hell with that, Clara Peck!” she said, vacuuming the parlor. “You’re only fifty-seven. Not senile, yet, by God!”
But still, why hadn’t she noticed?
It was the quality of silence, that was it. Her roof had never leaked, so no water had ever tapped the ceilings; the high beams had never shifted in any wind, and there were no mice. If the rain had whispered, or the beams groaned, or the mice danced in her attic, she would have glanced up and found the trapdoor.
But the house had stayed silent, and she had stayed blind.
“Bosh!” she cried, at supper. She finished the dishes, read until ten, went to bed early.
It was during that night that she heard the first, faint, Morse-code tapping, the first graffiti-scratching above, behind the blank ceiling’s pale, lunar face.
Half-asleep, her lips whispered: Mouse?
And then it was dawn.
Going downstairs to fix breakfast, she fixed the trapdoor with her steady, small-girl’s stare and felt her skinny fingers twitch to go fetch the stepladder.
“Hell,” she muttered. “Why bother to look at an empty attic? Next week, maybe.”
For about three days after that, the trapdoor vanished.
That is, she forgot to look at it. So it might as well not have been there.
But around midnight on the third night, she heard the mouse sounds or the whatever-they-were sounds drifting across her bedroom ceiling like milkweed ghosts touching the lost surfaces of the moon.
From that odd thought she shifted to tumbleweeds or dandelion seeds or just plain dust shaken from an attic sill.
She thought of sleep, but the thought didn’t take.
Lying flat in her bed, she watched the ceiling so fixedly she felt she could x-ray whatever it was that cavorted behind the plaster.
A flea circus? A tribe of gypsy mice in exodus from a neighbor’s house? Several had been shrouded, recently, to look like dark circus tents, so that pest-killers could toss in killer bombs and run off to let the secret life in the places die.
That secret life had most probably packed its fur luggage and fled. Clara Peck’s boarding house attic, free meals, was their new home away from home.
And yet.…
As she stared, the sounds began again. They shaped themselves in patterns across the wide ceiling’s brow; long fingernails that, scraping, wandered to this corner and that of the shut-away chamber above.
Clara Peck held her breath.
The patterns increased. The soft prowlings began to cluster toward an area above and beyond her bedroom door. It was as if the tiny creatures, whatever they were, were nuzzling another secret door, above, wanting out.
Slowly, Clara Peck sat up in bed, and slowly put her weight to the floor, not wanting it to creak. Slowly she cracked her bedroom door. She peered out into a hall flooded with cold light from a full moon, which poured through the landing window to show her—
The trapdoor.
Now, as if summoned by her warmth, the sounds of the tiny lost ghost feet above rushed to cluster and fret at the trapdoor rim itself.
Christ! thought Clara Peck. They hear me. They want me to—
The trapdoor shuddered gently with the tiny rocking weights of whatever it was arustle there.
And more and more of the invisible spider feet or rodent feet of the blown curls of old and yellowed newspapers touched and rustled the wooden frame.
Louder, and still louder.
Clara was about to cry: Go! Git!
When the phone rang.
“Gah!” gasped Clara Peck.
She felt a ton of blood plunge like a broken weight down her frame to crush her toes.
“Gah!”
She ran to seize, lift and strangle the phone.
“Who!?” she cried.
“Clara! It’s Emma Crowley! What’s wrong?!”
“My God!” shouted Clara. “You scared the hell out of me! Emma, why are you calling this late?”
There was a long silence as the woman across town found her own breath.
“It’s silly, I couldn’t sleep. I had this hunch—”
“Emma—”
“No, let me finish. All of a sudden I thought, Clara’s not well, or Clara’s hurt, or—”
Clara Peck sank to the edge of the bed, the weight of Emma’s voice pulling her down. Eyes shut, she nodded.
“Clara,” said Emma, a thousand miles off, “you—all right?”
“All right,” said Clara, at last.
“Not sick? House ain’t on fire?”
“No, no. No.”
“Thank God. Silly me. Forgive?”
“Forgiven.”
“Well, then … good night.”
And Emma Crowley hung up.
Clara Peck sat looking at the receiver for a full minute, listening to the signal that said that someone had gone away, and then at last placed the phone blindly back in its cradle.
She went back out to look up at the trapdoor.
It was quiet. Only a pattern of leaves, from the window, flickered and tossed on its wooden frame.
Clara blinked at the trapdoor.
“Think you’re smart, don’t you?” she said.
There were no more prowls, dances, murmurs, or mouse-pavanes for the rest of that night.
The sounds returned, three nights later, and they were—larger.
“Not mice,” said Clara Peck. “Good-sized rats. Eh?”
In answer, the ceiling above executed an intricate, crosscurrenting ballet, without music. This toe dancing, of a most peculiar sort, continued until the moon sank. Then, as soon as the light failed, the house grew silent and only Clara Peck took up breathing and life, again.
By the end of the week, the patterns were more geometrical. The sounds echoed in every upstairs room; the sewing room, the old bedroom, and in the library where some former occupant had once turned pages and gazed over a sea of chestnut trees.
On the tenth night, all eyes and no face, with the sounds coming in drumbeats and weird syncopations, at three in the morning, Clara Peck flung her sweaty hand at the telephone to dial Emma Crowley:
“Clara! I knew you’d call!”
“Emma, it’s three a.m. Aren’t you surprised?”
“No, I been lying here thinking of you. I wanted to call, but felt a fool. Something is wrong, yes?”
“Emma, answer me this. If a house has an empty attic for years, and all of a sudden has an attic full of things, how come?”
“I didn’t know you had an attic—”
“Who did? Listen, what started as mice then sounded like rats and now sounds like cats running around up there. What’ll I do?”
“The telephone number of the Ratzaway Pest Team on Main Street is—wait. Here. MAIN seven-seven-nine-nine. You sure something’s in your attic?”
“The whole damned high school track team.”
“Who used to live in your house, Clara?”
“Who—?”
“I mean, it’s been clean all this time, right, and now, well, infested. Anyone ever die there?”
“Die?”
“Sure, if someone died there, maybe you haven’t got mice, at all.”
“You trying to tell me—ghosts?”
“Don’t you believe—?”
