Skeleton Crew

It was genuine. There was no doubt about it, never had been, really. It was a perfect example of Delver's particular genius. The cluttered room behind him, his own reflection, Carlin's half-turned figure—they were all clear, sharp, almost three-dimensional. The faint magnifying effect of the glass gave everything a slightly curved effect that added an almost fourth-dimensional distortion. It was—His thought broke off, and he felt another wave of anger.

"Carlin." Carlin said nothing.

"Carlin, you damned fool, I thought you said that girl didn't harm the mirror!" No answer.

Spangler stared at him icily in the glass. "There is a piece of friction tape in the upper left-hand corner. Did she crack it? For God's sake, man, speak up!"

"You're seeing the Reaper," Carlin said. His voice was deadly and without passion.

"There's no friction tape on the mirror. Put your hand over it... dear God." Spangler wrapped the upper sleeve of his coat carefully around his hand, reached out, and pressed it gently against the mirror. "You see? Nothing supernatural. It's gone. My hand covers it."

"Covers it? Can you feel the tape? Why don't you pull it off?" Spangler took his hand away carefully and looked into the glass. Everything in it seemed a little more distorted; the room's odd angles seemed to yaw crazily as if on the verge of sliding off into some unseen eternity. There was no dark spot in the mirror. It was flawless. He felt a sudden unhealthy dread rise in him and despised himself for feeling it.

"It looked like him, didn't it?" Carlin asked. Hi face was very pale, and he was looking directly at the floor. A muscle twitched spasmodically in his neck. "Admit it, Spangler.

It looked like a hooded figure standing behind you, didn't it?"

"It looked like friction tape masking a short crack," Spangler said very firmly. "Nothing more, nothing less—"

"The Bates boy was very husky," Carlin said rapidly. His words seemed to drop into the hot, still atmosphere like stones into dark water. "Like a football player. He was wearing a letter sweater and dark green chinos. We were halfway to the upper-half exhibits when—"

"The heat is making me feel ill," Spangler said a little unsteadily. He had taken out a handkerchief and was wiping his neck. His eyes searched the convex surface of the mirror in small, jerky movements.

"When he said he wanted a drink of water... a drink of water, for God's sake!" Carlin turned and stared wildly at Spangler. "How was I to know? How was I to know?"

"Is there a lavatory? I think I'm going to —"

"His sweater... I just caught a glimpse of his sweater going down the stairs... then..."

"—be sick." Carlin shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked at the floor again. "Of course. Third door on your left, second floor, as you go toward the stairs." He looked up appealingly. "How was I to know!' But Spangler had already stepped down onto the ladder. It rocked under his weight and for a moment Carlin thought—hoped—that he would fall. He didn't. Through the open square in the floor Carlin watched him descend, holding his mouth lightly with one hand.

"Spangler—?" But he was gone.

Carlin listened to his footfalls fade to echoes, then die away. When they were gone, he shivered violently. He tried to move his own feet to the trapdoor, but they were frozen. Just that last, hurried glimpse of the boy's sweater... God!...

It was as if huge invisible hands were pulling his head, forcing it up. Not wanting to look, Carlin stared into the glimmering depths of the Delver looking-glass.

There was nothing there.

The room was reflected back to him faithfully, its dusty confines transmuted into glimmering infinity. A snatch of a half-remembered Tennyson poem occurred to him, and he muttered it aloud: " 'I am half-sick of shadows," said the Lady of Shalott...' " And still he could not look away, and the breathing stillness held him. From around one corner of the mirror a moth-eaten buffalo head peered at him with flat obsidian eyes.

The boy had wanted a drink of water and the fountain was in the first-floor lobby. He had gone downstairs and—And had never come back.

Ever.

Anywhere.

Like the duchess who had paused after primping before her glass for a soiree and decided to go back into the sitting room for her pearls. Like the rug-merchant who had gone for a carriage ride and had left behind him only an empty carriage and two closemouthed horses.

And the Delver glass had been in New York from 1897 until 1920, had been there when Judge Crater—Carlin stared as if hypnotized into the shallow depths of the mirror. Below, the blindeyed Adonis kept watch.

He waited for Spangler much like the Bates family must have waited for their son, much like the duchess's husband must have waited for his wife to return from the sitting room. He stared into the mirror and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

 

 

Nona

 

Do you love?

I hear her voice saying this—sometimes I still hear it. In my dreams. Do you love?