The Complete Short Fiction of Charles L. Grant Volume 2: The Orchard (Necon Classic Horror) by Charles L. Grant

Author:Charles L. Grant [Grant, Charles L.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Classic Horror #22
Publisher: Necon ebooks
Published: 2012-04-18T04:00:00+00:00

Part Four: Screaming In The Dark

Evening comes rapidly when the year begins to die — when the leaves have all turned and the grass bows against the wind and there’s no memory of spring despite the gold left behind by the sun in its setting.

Evening comes, not with shadows but a slow killing of the light . . . and when the light has gone, the trees grow larger and streets become tunnels and porches on old houses no longer hold the swings and the rockers and the warm summer calls to come away, come and sit, and watch for a while.

And when the sidewalks are empty and the cars have all been parked and the only sign of movement is a leaf scratching at the curb, there are the sounds, the nightsounds, the last sounds before the end — of wings dark over rooftops, of footsteps soft around the corner, of something clearing its throat behind the hedge near the streetlamp where white becomes a cage and the shadows seldom move.

There are stars.

There is a moon.

There are late August wishes and early June dreams that slip out of time and float into the cold that turns dew to frost and hardens the pavement, gives echoes blade edges and makes children’s laughter seem too close to screams.

In the evening; never morning.

When the year begins to die.

The hospital on King Street faces south toward the woods that flank the Station solidly no matter how many streets are made. It is three stories high, tinted windows and brick; a double row of evergreens reaches above the roof, keeping a year-round screen between the hospital and all its neighbors. All the patients’ rooms are ranged along the outside walls, to give them views of green; all the floors except the basement are divided left to right by a long central corridor that, like the others, is tiled and painted in the warmest earth tones, to keep voices and anxieties down and to give visitors the impression the building is much larger than it looks from the curb.

It is seldom full.

It is always fully staffed.

But in spite of the equipment more advanced than most cities, and in spite of the residents, who usually smiled and were usually relaxed and were usually better trained than their counterparts on the outside, Michael suspected that dungeons and medieval prisons were a lot like this: a window you could see through, but too far away to reach even with mighty efforts — a deliberate reminder that freedom was out there and you were still in here, even if your doctor was a genius and your nurse a beauty queen; something to lie on, uncomfortable and hard — a thinly padded rack sadistically designed to put crooks in your back and scabs on your heels and a giggling mad desire to throw yourself on the floor where at least you could sleep without waking slick with sweat; the food in small portions less than fit for human consumption; and the captain of the guards out patrolling the halls, left free by the king to torture the inmates.

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