999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [305]
And Harlow grew gaunt and wasted as the days and nights passed, while blackness shifted and slithered in shadow and a thing haunted the dark.
And still neither his housekeeper nor his cook would stay in the place at night, now saying that it was too dark. And they would leave before the sun went down and arrive again after it rose.
It was a blustery March night when the doorbell rang, and turning on the lights as he went, Harlow found Maxon standing at the door.
“Hob’s nails, Harlow,” said the silver-haired lawyer, “you look rather haggard, drained. Aren’t you sleeping well?”
“Quick, quick, A-Arthur, come in. It’s d-dark out there; come in.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Harlow. A bodyguard to protect you from shadows?”
Harlow giggled. Startled by the sound, he slapped his hand across his mouth. Then through his fingers he whispered, “P-pretty insane, hey?” It was uncertain as to whether Harlow was speaking to himself or to Arthur Maxon.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“A-a shrink, don’t you m-mean?”
“No. A family practitioner. You look twenty years older, my boy.”
Again Harlow giggled.
“I’m worried about you, lad. You need to keep up your energy.”
“I-I’m thinking of Weaving this p-place. There’s something here. Something dreadful.”
“Oh, Harlow, don’t say that. You’d lose a fortune. Besides, I’ve served this estate for many long years and will certainly see to its needs for many more long years to come. And so, my boy, I want you to stay and see to your health; it’s in the best interests of all.”
With Arthur urging Harlow to stick it out and to take care of himself, and Harlow clamping his hand over his own mouth to keep from giggling, the conversation dwindled to nought.
The evening ended with Harlow standing well back in the lighted foyer and watching while Arthur strode away from the house to fade into the darkness of night.
Weeks passed, while shadows shifted, and blackness breathed, and something stood in the darkness beyond. And during those same weeks, Harlow continued to decline, his vigor slipping away on tides of fear. And he was prone to fits of babbling, and spasms of giggling whispers. Even so, he held on to one rational thought, or so it seemed to him:
I want this thing, whatever it is, not only gone but dead.
Harlow began thinking of weapons—pistols, shotguns, rifles—something certain to kill, and then he remembered what Harry Callahan had said about a 44 magnum being the most powerful handgun in the world, able to blow heads clean off. That’s what I need: something to blow this thing’s head clean off!
But still Harlow had a major problem: how do you kill a thing that you can’t see, a thing which flees from the light?
How can I get a good shot at it? I need to know where it is. I need to clearly see it, that’s what. But how can I see something in the dar—?
Wait! That’s it! Night-vision goggles! Or do they call them scopes? No matter, it’s those things they use in the army to see in the dark. You wear them on your head, like that guy in Silence of the Lambs—Buffalo Bill; yeah, Buffalo Bill—they multiply even the faintest of light and …
His mind abuzz with possibilities, with plans, Harlow hardly slept at all. And he sat in bed, his blankets clutched to his chin, and giggled at the cleverness of his secret plan and now and then slapped his hand over his mouth to keep the secret from popping out … and watched as silent shadows slid up the stairs and along the walls in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, just at the limit of light.
The next day he bought a .44 magnum. A Dirty Harry gun. The dealer had said the fifty-caliber Desert Eagle was even more powerful, but Harlow insisted upon the Smith and Wesson .44, and he wanted it now. Upon seeing the haggard man’s Beemer and the wad of money he offered, the proprietor temporarily closed shop and pulled the shades and turned on