Chapter #80The Audition by: Seuzz   "Miss McLean," the professor says. "Is there something wrong?"
She doesn't reply. Very stiffly, she steps into the library. She trips as she enters.
Sympathy washes over you, and you fumble an arm around her. She's trembling. And she's so scared that she doesn't pull away.
"It's quite simple, children," Blackwell says. "I'm afraid I have let my collection get into a state of disorder. Moving books about as I study them, adding new books, discarding those I no longer have a use for. I can no longer lay my hands on the ones I want. So I need a list of all the books I have, and where they are."
He hands you a sheet of stickers. "You can start by putting these on each shelf. Each bookcase gets a letter, and each shelf a number. After that, I will show you the computer software you will use for cataloging." He pats you on the shoulder, smiles, and leaves.
Stephanie swallows hard, and looks around. "This place is creepy," she whispers.
"Yeah, I hate books too."
"I don't mean that. I mean--" She stares at something over your shoulder. You look. It's an alcove, inside of which is a stuffed, three-headed dog. "What is this guy a professor of?"
"Beats me. The faster we get started, the sooner we can get out of here."
So she sits at one of the desks, scribbling on the little colored dots and handing them to you. You take them around the room, using a wheeled ladder to reach the higher shelves. The woodwork prickles under your fingertips as you touch each shelf. Perfect place for Bob to hang out, you think to yourself.
Halfway along one wall you come to a very curious device: a pendulum, the top of whose shaft disappears into the ceiling and whose weighted bottom is shaped like a scythe. It slices along an inch above the floor. Directly beneath the blade is a smooth groove.
You don't point it out to Stephanie.
You continue down that side of the room, coming to the two grandfather clocks that are ticking asynchronously. It makes you very dizzy to be near them.
You cross over to the wall opposite. It's a little better over here, until you come to the alcove that has the three-headed dog in it. It's only stuffed of course, but it crouches in a very life-like way. You avoid its eyes, which is how you come to notice the little wand sitting in the alcove by one of its paws. You don't touch it, for you've the strong impression that three pairs of jaws would sink into your hand if you did.
You're past the alcove and halfway up that wall when Stephanie shrieks. You spin around, to find her standing halfway on the desk, her eyes bulging with terror. She's staring at the French doors. "What's wrong?" you ask.
She turns a very white face on you, then whirls to look over her shoulder. She gasps and swallows. "I saw something," she stammers. "It was a hand, all black and hairy." She shudders. "It was reaching over my shoulder."
You walk over and brush her long dark hair back. "It was just your hair," you say. "It was on your shoulder, and--"
"It was a hand," she says firmly. "I don't want to work in this place, it's all weird."
"It's okay, I'll protect you from--" From what? From Bob?
"Is there something wrong?" That's Blackwell, looking in from the entryway.
"I accidentally scared Stephanie," you say. "She didn't hear me coming up behind her, and--"
"Is that all it was, Miss McLean," the professor asks skeptically.
She gulps, and after a moment's hesitation nods.
"This room does have an unsettling effect upon the nerves, doesn't it?" Blackwell says. "I did not design or build this house. The man who did had ... eccentric ideas, and built it as a kind of parlor game, to delight his friends. There is nothing to worry about. It is prone to tricks of the light in the late afternoon. That is all."
Stephanie nods and sits back down, and the professor exits. For the rest of the afternoon, though, you can hear her breathing very hard.
* * * * *
When you're done numbering the shelves, though, Blackwell suggests putting off the actual catalog work until Friday; it took only thirty minutes to put up the stickers, but he gives you an hour of math tutoring at the dining room table.
You find that bit of modeling clay sitting by your place, so you pick it up. It is stiff and dry and flaky, so you surreptitiously spit in it to make it more pliable. You play with it under the table all the time that he goes over the basic algebra exercises with you and Stephanie. There is nothing spooky about the dining room, and gradually she calms down.
When the tutoring session is over, Blackwell gives each of you a five dollar bonus and a paternal smile. You set the clay back on the table, for him to do whatever he needs to do with it, and follow Stephanie to the front door. You've just got it open when a strangled voice calls from deep in the house: "Presc'tt!"
You freeze, and look at Stephanie. She looks blankly back. "Presc'tt!" Blackwell calls again. You frown. "Wait for me outside," you tell Stephanie. "Sounds like he's having a fit or something." Relief washes over her, and she practically runs out the door.
You tramp back into the dining room. "Can't you remember my freaking name," you grumble. He'd made such a big deal about you "being Casey" and him "being Blackwell," so there'd be no "real" memories in the mask he's wearing. So why is he fucking up?
You find him staring at the table, at the lump of clay. His expression is stricken; more than that, it's a look of stark terror. He points at it. "What's that?"
"It's that lump of clay you had sitting out," you shrug. "I was playing with it like--"
He seizes you by the shoulder; fingernails bite deeply into your flesh.
"I was just goofing off with it," you lamely finish, remembering you're supposed to be in character.
But he squeezes you harder. You flinch, and look at the clay.
It's not a lump anymore. It's a figurine. Tall, thin, a little stooped, with a puffy face and long hair draped over the head to trail over the shoulder. You blink. It looks exactly like Bob, the Bob you met on the ride back to Eric's from the airport. "Did I do something wrong?" you carefully ask.
He releases you with a jerk, and slowly, with seeming loathing, he picks up the figure between two fingers. He shudders. "No, you did good. Too good."
"What do you mean?"
He fixes you with a hard stare, and you think you see hatred in his eyes. Then he shrugs, stiffly. "Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Friday," you remind him. "Tomorrow's Thanksgiving."
"Tomorrow," he growls. "Off with you now."
You stumble backwards, out of the room and down the hallway and out of the house. You discover that Stephanie has already pedaled away.
* * * * *
Thanksgiving Day is very nice, though it's just you and your mom and dad and lots and lots of food, which takes a long time to prepare. After the meal your folks call your brother, Tony, and after they talk to him you get on the phone and have a good long talk with him too. Tony is big and strong and bright, and he always treated Casey well--much better than you ever treated Robert--and it's easy to relax inside your assumed persona and have a good time with him. It will also put off the moment when you have to see Bob again.
But when you're done with him you sigh and face up to your responsibilities. "Gonna ride around the neighborhood a bit," you tell your folks.
"Don't be too long," your mom says. "It's going to get dark soon." You resolve to use that as an excuse to not linger at Blackwell's longer than you have to.
The professor looks much as he did when you left him yesterday--irritable--and he brusquely summons you back into the living room. "The figure you executed in the dining room yesterday," he says. "I was much impressed by it. You have artistic skills, young man?"
"I like to draw," you--as Casey--truthfully reply.
"Show me what you like to draw," he says, and hands you a sketchpad.
Your lips twitch. Yeah, okay. You take a good long time over it, making sure you've got the bush between her legs right, but don't bother to put a head on the nude's shapely shoulders. You grin as you hand it back to him.
He grimaces. "Of course. Could you draw a model from life? Could you sketch me?" he asks. You shrug. "Try. Use this, please." He hands you a golden mechanical pencil.
You try to comply, but the pencil seems to fight you. No matter how you grip it or concentrate, it will not sketch the professor. It keeps trying to come out like another figure. Eventually you give up, and draw Bob as you remember him.
You're not done before Blackwell, looking over the top of the pad, yanks it away and drops it to the floor. He drums his fingers, and stares darkly at you. "You've a prodigious skill," he says.
"Sometimes I daydream about being a comic book artist," you smirk back.
"Your talent would be wasted there." He drums his fingers some more, then goes to the kitchen, returning with a little dish. "Spit in this, please," he says.
An odd request, but an easy one. And yet you pause. This could be more "playacting" on his part, but you have the feeling it isn't.
You can't refuse him, but you don't have to. It's one of the curious things about masks that you'd noticed: Anything that comes off them--hair, spit, blood--quickly evaporates. You suspect he wants the saliva of Will Prescott, but you could just give him Casey's, for all the good it would do him.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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