Traces of Mary by G. Wayne Miller

Author:G. Wayne Miller [Miller, G. Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: horror, thriller, mystery
Publisher: Crossroad Press
Published: 2021-11-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty: A ticking clock.

Wednesday, July 7.

For Billy McAllister and his mother, all but the final half hour of this day was charmed: a classic sun-drenched day that included hot dogs, pizza, Cokes, and an outdoor concert at Roger Williams Park that ended in torch-lit darkness.

They returned home at 10:30 p.m. Grammy’s old Toyota Corolla had finally died, and the McAllisters relied on mass transit now. And bus connections take time.

“Half an hour TV, then bed,” Mary said.

“Can’t I have an hour? Please?”

“One hour and then in without a whimper. Promise?”

“Promise!”

Until the end of the 11 o’clock news, from which the Angel Iannotti story had finally exited, Billy paid no attention to his mother. He heard dishes being washed, a vacuum, water running in the bathroom.

Then there was silence.

“Ma?” he called out softly on his way to his room. “You asleep, Ma?”

The kitchen was sparkling clean but deserted.

The bathroom was empty.

Her bedroom was empty.

She’s gone again, was his first thought, one that chilled him. God, it’s happening again.

But she couldn’t have left, Billy concluded after a brief investigation. The kitchen door was locked—the slide bolt and safety chain engaged. Every window was closed. Since Angel, that had been status quo.

“Mom?” Billy called again, more urgently. “Mom? Where are you? Are you alright?”

“I’m here.”

She sounded distant but calm, none of that craziness in her voice.

“Where?”

“In here.”

The voice was coming from inside her room—from really inside her room, as if she were in the walls or ceiling or something. Billy stood in her doorway, scrutinizing more intently this time. He did not find her. Her bed was untouched.

“Ma?”

“I’m here.”

Muffled, as if she were under the bed.

Could she be under the bed?

Doing what?

Why?

Billy swallowed; his throat was suddenly scratchy and dry. Among Mary’s favorite authors was a guy named Richard Matheson and he’d done a bunch of original episodes for Twilight Zone, which Billy caught now and then on Andres’s cable TV. One of Matheson’s stories was about a little girl who had crawled under a sleeper-couch and been sucked into another dimension. Billy had seen that one.

No monsters, no psychos, not even any blood… and it had been one of the scariest shows he’d ever seen.

Billy dropped to his knees and lifted the spread.

He saw no dust kitties or a stray slipper or shoe.

“Ma? Ma?”

“I’m in here!” she said, and this time her voice was carrying irritation.

Now he got it. Now he did!

At the back of Mary’s closet was a small door; it provided access to the burners, electrical boards and sewer and water hookups for all four apartments, plus limited space for storage.

No self-respecting architect would ever have designed a building from scratch like this, but in rehabbing the old Victorian, this had been the only way Mr. Sierra could get the basement apartment he needed to make his purchase profitable. With such infrequent need to get into the utilities area, Billy sometimes forgot the cubicle was there.

Billy squeezed past slacks and blouses and went through the second door. A single bulb burned in an overhead fixture.

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