999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [289]
In the theater, he put Mr. Carr’s stuffed clothes on the chair next to the other dummy and placed the doll on the stage. His hatred was back, but it was not as strong as it had been before, and underneath the loathing was longing. He took off his clothes, folding them neatly and laying them on the floor. He stood there for a moment, feeling the strange cold breeze caress his naked skin, then climbed onto the stage. He picked up the doll he had made, then its brethren. Lying flat on the dusty boards, he placed the small figures on top of his body, in theatrical positions, shivering slightly at the warm sliminess.
He positioned the final figure on his chest. Nothing happened for a moment. Then, suddenly, his hatred was gone, replaced by something like contentment, and in the silence of the theater he thought he heard an echo of singing.
He wanted to sit up, wanted to see if anything was happening, but he was enjoying it all too much, and he remained prone, still. The singing grew louder.
He closed his eyes, waiting.
And on his body, in the dark, the dolls began to move.
Thomas F. Monteleone
REHEARSALS
Tom Monteleone’s breakout novel, The Blood of the Lamb, deservedly won 1993’s Stoker Award for best novel. He followed it up with Night of Broken Souls and The Resurrectionist. He’s also known for his early science fiction work (he was another writer willing to make the jump from sf to horror, with successful results) and as the publisher of Borderlands Press, as well as the editor of the excellent Borderlands anthologies.
“Rehearsals” is a Twilight Zone story all the way; if Rod Serling were still around I think he would snap this one up in a second. In fact, it’s so much of a TZ story that I’ve had a hard time since reading it believing that I didn’t see it as one of the show’s episodes. Quite an homage, I’d say—as well as a testament to Monteleone’s ability.
Dominic Kazan walked through the darkness, convinced he was not alone.
The idea cut through him like a razor as he fumbled for the light switch. Where was the damned thing? A sense of panic rose in him like a hot column of vomit in his throat, but he fought it down as his fingers tripped across the switch.
Abruptly, the lobby took shape in the dim light.
It, like the rest of the Barclay Theatre, was deserted. Crowds, actors, stagehands—everyone except for Dominic—had left hours ago. And he knew he should be alone. He was the janitor/night watchman for the Barclay, accustomed to, and actually comfortable with, the solitude. But for the last few nights, he could not escape the sensation there was something else lurking in the darkness of the big building.
Something that seemed to be waiting for him.
He enjoyed working alone; he had been alone most of his life. He did not mind working in almost total darkness; he had lived in a different kind of darkness most of his life.
But this feeling that he was not alone was beginning to bother him, actually frighten him. And he didn’t want to have any bad feelings about the Barclay. It was his only true home, and he loved his job there. There was something special about being intimate with the magic of the theater—the props and costumes, the make-believe world of sets and flats. Sometimes he would come to work early, just to watch the hive-like activity of the stagehands and actors, feeling the magic-world come to life.
All his life, there seemed to be something stalking him. A mindless kind of thing, a thing of failure and despair. Somehow, it always caught up with him, and threw his life into chaos. He wondered if it was on his trail again.
Tonight. Trying to make him run away again.
And he was so tired, tired of running away …
… Away from the fragile dreams of his childhood, the traumas of adolescence, and the failures of manhood. His father