We Are Where the Nightmares Go and Other Stories by C. Robert Cargill

Author:C. Robert Cargill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-06-12T00:00:00+00:00

A Clean White Room

Scott Derrickson and C. Robert Cargill

The Lobby

The clack-clack-clack of his wing-tip shoes rings out stark and steady against the polished marble floors, echoing with a tinny din through the cavernous old lobby. At one time this place was the height of luxury, but now the wallpaper is decades old, yellowed with water stains, peeling in places, the mahogany front desk chipped, abused, languishing just this side of total ruin. Yet somehow the browns, yellows, and whites blend together into something homey, comforting. In the right light it might even seem quaint.

But it never quite holds the right light. In fact, it is rare that this building has exactly the right light at all. Quirky. That’s how the Landlord had put it. The wiring is quirky. Damned inconvenient is what it really is.

He’s pacing again, counting his steps again, each stride just shy of covering the breadth of the black-and-white checkerboard pattern splayed from one dingy wall to the other. Eighty-seven and a half steps wide, 112 from door to desk. But it feels bigger. Sounds bigger. It seems to change shape in the night, the walls growing farther apart or contracting inches at a time. But it is always 871/2 steps wide and 112 steps from door to desk. No matter how many times he counts, it is always the same.

He stops. He turns. And there are his groceries. Two large paper bags filled with the same items they held last week. And the week before that. And as many weeks back as he can remember.

He didn’t hear a knock or a key in the tumbler, and the delivery boy made no announcement. He’d always assumed the delivery boy was scared of the place, creeped out by the images on the carved ebony front doors, chased off by the eerie silence that always pervades this place. But he never saw him, never spoke to him, couldn’t say with any certainty that such a delivery boy even existed. Groceries simply appeared, always when he wasn’t looking. So he walks back 112 steps, picks up his groceries, and walks 43 steps back toward a large oak door with a small, slightly corroded brass plate that reads superintendent.

The Superintendent fumbles in his jacket pocket and keys clatter into his hand, several dozen different cuts and shapes and metals all bound together on a single large brass ring. He thumbs through them, finding the right one by touch. The key goes in smooth and silent, the lock clicking only faintly, the knob whispering gently as it turns. It is the quietest door in the building. It has to be, for it hides its greatest secrets.

He opens the door, slides quickly in, and sniffs deeply at the air of the place.

The apartment beyond is opulent, almost ridiculous, both in size and architecture. While all of the rooms in the building are unusually large, the Superintendent’s dwelling is second only to the penthouse in size. In any other building it would sell for

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