999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [77]
From outside came the whisper of rain—normally a peaceful sound, but tonight a troubling one; he could picture the land around the house, and beneath it, becoming a place of marsh and stagnant water, where God knows what might grow. The important thing, he knew, was to keep the bottom of the house raised above the ground, or else dampness would rot the timbers. Surely the crawl space under his feet was ample protection from the wetness; still, he wished that the house had a basement.
Softly, so as not to wake his wife, he tiptoed into the bathroom—still smelling pleasantly of paint and varnish—and stared pensively at the floor. For a moment, alarmed, he thought he noticed a hairline crack between two of the new tiles, where the floor was slightly uneven between the toilet and the shower stall; but the light was bad in here, and the crack had probably been there all along.
By the time he returned to the front room, the fire was beginning to go out. He’d have liked to add more wood, but he didn’t want to risk waking Iris. Seating himself back on the rug with a pile of magazines beside him, he continued his search through the remaining issues of Home Handyman, right up till the point, more than three years in the past, when the issues stopped. He found no further updates from “Anxious;” he wasn’t sure whether he was disappointed or relieved. The latter, he supposed; things must have come out okay.
The issues of Handyman were replaced by a pile, only slightly less yellowed and slightly less substantial, of Modem Health, with, predictably, its own advice column, this one conducted by a “Dr. Carewell.” Shingles on roots were succeeded by shingles on faces and legs; the cracked plaster and rotting baseboards gave way to hay fever and thinning hair.
“I have an enormous bunion on my right foot,” one letter began, with a trace of pride. “I have a hernia that was left untreated,” said another. Readers complained of plantar warts, aching backs, and coughs that wouldn’t quit. It was like owning a home, Herb thought; you had to be constantly vigilant. Sooner or later, something always gave way and the rot seeped in. “Dear Dr. Carewell,” one letter began, where the page corner had been turned down, “My husband and I are both increasingly incapacitated by a rash that has left large rose-red blotches all over our bodies. Could it be some sort of fungus? There is no pain or itching, but odd little bumps have begun to appear in the center.” It was signed “Bedridden.”
All this talk of breakdown and disease was depressing, and the mention of bed had made him tired. The fire had almost gone out. Glancing at the doctor’s reply—it was cheerily reassuring, something about plenty of exercise and good organic vegetables—he got slowly to his feet. From another room came the creak of wood as the old house settled in for the night.
Iris snored softly on the couch. She looked so peaceful that he hated to wake her, but he knew she’d fall asleep again soon; the two of them always slept well, out here in the country. “Come on, hon,” he whispered. “Bedtime.” The sound of the rain no longer troubled him as he bent toward her, brushed back her hair, and tenderly planted a kiss on her cheek, rosy in the dying light.
F. Paul Wilson
GOOD FRIDAY
F. Paul Wilson was paid more for his story in this hook than for his first two novels with Doubleday in the 1970s. I know because he told me so, and also because I was at Doubleday at the time, and might even, though I thankfully don’t remember, have ordered up the paltry checks for him.
How things have changed! Doubleday no longer cranks out two cheap hardcover science fiction novels a month, presold to schools and libraries (ah, cheap in price and production though they were, almost everyone involved loved them, and the line produced such classics in the horror field alone as the Shadows series, the Whispers anthologies, and the