Part 19 (1/2)

”I shall mend the brocade sofa,” said Carla. shall mend the brocade sofa,” said Carla.

The captain glanced once around the table, and sighed. ”I must pack,” he said. ”We cannot delay our duties even though we have offended lovely women.” Mrs. Montague, turning coldly away from him, rose and left the table, with Carla and Margaret following.

Margaret went quickly to the tile room, where the white face of Margaret who died for love stared eternally into the sky beyond the broad window. There was indeed a tile missing from the wide white cheek, and the broken spot looked like a tear, Margaret thought; she kneeled down and touched the tile face quickly to be sure that it was not a tear.

Then she went slowly back through the lovely rooms, across the broad rose and white tiled hall, and into the drawing room, and stopped to close the tall doors behind her.

”There really is a tile missing,” she said.

Paul turned and frowned; he was standing alone in the drawing room, tall and bright in his uniform, ready to leave. ”You are mistaken,” he said. ”It is not possible that anything should be missing.”

”I saw it.”

”It is not true, true, you know,” he said. He was walking quickly up and down the room, slapping his gloves on his wrist, glancing nervously, now and then, at the door, at the tall windows opening out onto the marble stairway. ”The house is the same as ever,” he said. ”It does not change.” you know,” he said. He was walking quickly up and down the room, slapping his gloves on his wrist, glancing nervously, now and then, at the door, at the tall windows opening out onto the marble stairway. ”The house is the same as ever,” he said. ”It does not change.”

”But the worn carpet . . .” It was under his feet as he walked.

”Nonsense,” he said violently. ”Don't you think I'd know my own house? I care for it constantly, even when they they forget; without this house I could not exist; do you think it would begin to crack while I am here?” forget; without this house I could not exist; do you think it would begin to crack while I am here?”

”How can you keep it from aging? Carpets will will wear, you know, and unless they are replaced . . .” wear, you know, and unless they are replaced . . .”

”Replaced?” He stared as though she had said something evil. ”What could replace anything in this house?” He touched Mrs. Montague's embroidery frame, softly. ”All we can do is add to it.”

There was a sound outside; it was the family coming down the great stairway to say goodbye. He turned quickly and listened, and it seemed to be the sound he had been expecting. ”I will always remember you,” he said to Margaret, hastily, and turned again toward the tall windows. ”Goodbye.”

”It is so dark,” Margaret said, going beside him. ”You will come back?”

”I will come back,” he said sharply. ”Goodbye.” He stepped across the sill of the window onto the marble stairway outside; he was black for a moment against the white marble, and Margaret stood still at the window watching him go down the steps and away through the gardens. ”Lost, lost,” she heard faintly, and, from far away, ”all is lost.”

She turned back to the room, and, avoiding the worn spot in the carpet and moving widely around Mrs. Montague's embroidery frame, she went to the great doors and opened them. Outside, in the hall with the rose and white tiled floor, Mr. and Mrs. Montague and Carla were standing with the captain.

”Son,” Mrs. Montague was saying. ”When will you be back?”

”Don't fuss fuss at me,” the captain said. ”I'll be back when I can.” at me,” the captain said. ”I'll be back when I can.”

Carla stood silently, a little away. ”Please be careful,” she said, and, ”Here's Margaret, come to say goodbye to you, brother.”

”Don't linger, m'boy,” said Mr. Montague. ”Hard on the women.”

”There are so many things Margaret and I planned for you while you were here,” Carla said to her brother. ”The time has been so short.”

Margaret, standing beside Mrs. Montague, turned to Carla's brother (and Paul; who was Paul?) and said ”Goodbye.” He bowed to her and moved to go to the door with his father.

”It is hard to see him go,” Mrs. Montague said. ”And we do not know when he will come back.” She put her hand gently on Margaret's shoulder. ”We must show you more of the house,” she said. ”I saw you one day try the door of the ruined tower; have you seen the hall of flowers? Or the fountain room?”

”When my brother comes again,” Carla said, ”we shall have a musical evening, and perhaps he will take us boating on the river.”

”And my visit?” asked Margaret smiling. ”Surely there will be an end to my visit?”

Mrs. Montague, with one last look at the door from which Mr. Montague and the captain had gone, dropped her hand from Margaret's shoulder and said, ”I must go to my embroidery. I have neglected it while my son was with us.”

”You will not leave us before my brother comes again?” Carla asked Margaret.

”I have only to put the figures into the foreground,” Mrs. Montague said, hesitating on her way to the drawing room. ”I shall have you exactly if you sit on the lawn near the river.”

”We shall be models of stillness,” said Carla, laughing. ”Margaret, will you come and sit beside me on the lawn?”

RICHARD MATHESON.

Richard Burton Matheson was born in Allendale, New Jersey, in 1926. He served in the U.S. Army during World War II and subsequently gained a degree in journalism from the University of Missouri. He married Ruth Ann Woodson in 1952; one of their sons is the noted contemporary horror and science fiction writer Richard Christian Matheson. Matheson burst onto the horror scene in 1954 with two volumes, the novel I Am Legend I Am Legend and the story collection and the story collection Born of Man and Woman. I Am Legend Born of Man and Woman. I Am Legend is one of the most inventive elaborations of the vampire myth since Bram Stoker's is one of the most inventive elaborations of the vampire myth since Bram Stoker's Dracula, Dracula, portraying a future society in which a virus has transformed every human being, with one exception, into a vampire; it was filmed as portraying a future society in which a virus has transformed every human being, with one exception, into a vampire; it was filmed as The Omega Man. The Omega Man. Matheson subsequently wrote Matheson subsequently wrote The Shrinking Man The Shrinking Man (1956), filmed the next year as (1956), filmed the next year as The Incredible Shrinking Man The Incredible Shrinking Man with his screenplay. Matheson did much work in film and television, writing many scripts for Rod Serling's with his screenplay. Matheson did much work in film and television, writing many scripts for Rod Serling's The Twilight Zone The Twilight Zone and also for and also for Thriller Thriller and other series. and other series. A Stir of Echoes A Stir of Echoes (1958) is an effective novel about psychic powers. (1958) is an effective novel about psychic powers.

In spite of the success of such novels as h.e.l.l House h.e.l.l House (1971)-a takeoff of s.h.i.+rley Jackson's (1971)-a takeoff of s.h.i.+rley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House The Haunting of Hill House-and What Dreams May Come What Dreams May Come (1978), many critics believe that Matheson's best work is in the short story, especially in the five-volume series, (1978), many critics believe that Matheson's best work is in the short story, especially in the five-volume series, Shock! Shock! (1961), (1961), Shock II Shock II (1964), (1964), Shock III Shock III (1966), (1966), Shock Waves Shock Waves (1970), and (1970), and Shock 4 Shock 4 (1980). Matheson, along with Ray Bradbury, Fritz Leiber, and Charles Beaumont, is credited with bringing supernatural horror down to earth, eschewing the Gothic extravaganzas of Lovecraft for mundane, contemporary settings for greater immediacy of effect. The immense (1980). Matheson, along with Ray Bradbury, Fritz Leiber, and Charles Beaumont, is credited with bringing supernatural horror down to earth, eschewing the Gothic extravaganzas of Lovecraft for mundane, contemporary settings for greater immediacy of effect. The immense Collected Stories Collected Stories appeared in 1989. appeared in 1989.

”Long Distance Call” (first published in Beyond Fantasy Fiction, Beyond Fantasy Fiction, November 1953, and reprinted in November 1953, and reprinted in Shock! Shock!) is typical of Matheson's work in utilizing a common utilitarian device-the telephone-to effect a novel treatment of the conventional supernatural theme of the reanimated dead.

LONG DISTANCE CALL.

Just before the telephone rang, storm winds toppled the tree outside her window and jolted Miss Keene from dreaming sleep. She flung herself up with a gasp, her frail hands crumpling twists of sheet in either palm. Beneath her fleshless chest the heart jerked taut, the sluggish blood spurted. She sat in rigid muteness, her eyes staring at the night.

In another second, the telephone rang.

Who on earth? The question shaped unwittingly in her brain. Her thin hand faltered in the darkness, the fingers searching a moment and then Miss Elva Keene drew the cool receiver to her ear. The question shaped unwittingly in her brain. Her thin hand faltered in the darkness, the fingers searching a moment and then Miss Elva Keene drew the cool receiver to her ear.

”h.e.l.lo,” she said.

Outside a cannon of thunder shook the night, twitching Miss Keene's crippled legs. I've missed the voice, I've missed the voice, she thought, she thought, the thunder has blotted out the voice. the thunder has blotted out the voice.

”h.e.l.lo,” she said again.

There was no sound. Miss Keene waited in expectant lethargy. Then she repeated. ”Hel-lo,” in a cracking voice. Outside the thunder crashed again.

Still no voice spoke, not even the sound of a phone being disconnected met her ears. Her wavering hand reached out and thumped down the receiver with an angry motion.

”Inconsideration,” she muttered, thudding back on her pillow. Already her infirm back ached from the effort of sitting.

She forced out a weary breath. Now she'd have to suffer through the whole tormenting process of going to sleep again-the composing of jaded muscles, the ignoring of abrasive pain in her legs, the endless, frustrating struggle to turn off the faucet in her brain and keep unwanted thoughts from dripping. Oh, well, it had to be done; Nurse Phillips insisted on proper rest. Elva Keene breathed slowly and deeply, drew the covers to her chin and labored hopefully for sleep.

In vain.

Her eyes opened and, turning her face to the window, she watched the storm move off on lightning legs. Why can't I sleep, Why can't I sleep, she fretted, she fretted, why must I always lie here awake like this? why must I always lie here awake like this?

She knew the answer without effort. When a life was dull, the smallest element added seemed unnaturally intriguing. And life for Miss Keene was the sorry pattern of lying flat or being propped on pillows, reading books which Nurse Phillips brought from the town library, getting nourishment, rest, medication, listening to her tiny radio-and waiting, waiting waiting for something different to happen. for something different to happen.

Like the telephone call that wasn't a call.