Black House

Nor, probably, the fiftieth.

"Turn to your left."

Ty does. Now the old man is behind him. A moment later, he feels the bony fingers grip the right cheek of his bottom. It’s not the first time the old man has done this (each time it happens he’s reminded again of the witch in "Hansel and Gretel," asking the lost children to stick their arms out of their cage), but this time his touch is different. Weaker.

Die soon, Ty thinks, and the thought — its cold collectedness — is very, very Judy. Die soon, old man, so I don’t have to.

"This one is mine," the old man says . . . but he sounds out of breath, no longer quite sure of himself. "I’ll bake half, fry the rest. With bacon."

"I don’t think you’ll be able to eat much," Ty says, surprised at the calmness of his own voice. "Looks like somebody ventilated your stomach pretty g — "

There is a crackling, accompanied by a hideous, jittery burning sensation in his left shoulder. Ty screams and staggers against the wall across the corridor from his cell, trying to clutch the wounded place, trying not to cry, trying to hold on to just a little of his beautiful dream about being at the game with George Rathbun and the other KDCU Brewer Bash winners. He knows he actually did forget to enter this year, but in dreams such things don’t matter. That’s what’s so beautiful about them.

Oh, but it hurts so bad. And despite all his efforts — all the Judy Marshall in him — the tears begin to flow.

"You want another un?" the old man gasps. He sounds both sick and hysterical, and even a kid Ty’s age knows that’s a dangerous combination. "You want another un, just for good luck?"

"No," Ty gasps. "Don’t zap me again, please don’t."

"Then start walkin’! And no more smart goddamn remarks!"

Ty starts to walk. Somewhere he can hear water dripping. Somewhere, very faint, he can hear the laughing caw of a crow — probably the same one that tricked him, and how he’d like to have Ebbie’s .22 and blow its evil shiny black feathers off. The outside world seems light-years away. But George Rathbun told him help was on the way, and sometimes the things you heard in dreams came true. His very own mother told him that once, and long before she started to go all wonky in the head, too.

They come to a stairway that seems to circle down forever. Up from the depths comes a smell of sulfur and a roast of heat. Faintly he can hear what might be screams and moans. The clank of machinery is louder. There are ominous creaking sounds that might be belts and chains.

Ty pauses, thinking the old guy won’t zap him again unless he absolutely has to. Because Ty might fall down this long circular staircase. Might hit the place on his head the old guy already clipped with the rock, or break his neck, or tumble right off the side. And the old guy wants him alive, at least for now. Ty doesn’t know why, but he knows this intuition is true.

"Where are we going, mister?"

"You’ll find out," Burny says in his tight, out-of-breath voice. "And if you think I don’t dare zap you while we’re on the stairs, my little friend, you’re very mistaken. Now get walking."

Tyler Marshall starts down the stairs, descending past vast galleries and balconies, around and down, around and down. Sometimes the air smells of putrid cabbage. Sometimes it smells of burned candles. Sometimes of wet rot. He counts a hundred and fifty steps, then stops counting. His thighs are burning. Behind him, the old man is gasping, and twice he stumbles, cursing and holding the ancient banister.

Fall, old man, Ty chants inside his head. Fall and die, fall and die.

But at last they are at the bottom. They arrive in a circular room with a dirty glass ceiling. Above them, gray sky hangs down like a filthy bag. There are plants oozing out of broken pots, sending greedy feelers across a floor of broken orange bricks. Ahead of them, two doors — French doors, Ty thinks they are called — stand open. Beyond them is a crumbling patio surrounded by ancient trees. Some are palms. Some — the ones with the hanging, ropy vines — might be banyans. Others he doesn’t know. One thing he’s sure of: they are no longer in Wisconsin.

Standing on the patio is an object he knows very well. Something from his own world. Tyler Marshall’s eyes well up again at the sight of it, which is almost like the sight of a face from home in a hopelessly foreign place.

"Stop, monkey-boy." The old man sounds out of breath. "Turn around."

When Tyler does, he’s pleased to see that the blotch on the old man’s shirt has spread even farther. Fingers of blood now stretch all the way to his shoulders, and the waistband of his baggy old blue jeans has gone a muddy black. But the hand holding the Taser is rock-steady.

God damn you, Tyler thinks. God damn you to hell.

The old man has put his bag on a little table. He simply stands where he is for a moment, getting his breath. Then he rummages in the bag (something in there utters a faint metallic clink) and brings out a soft brown cap. It’s the kind guys like Sean Connery sometimes wear in the movies. The old man holds it out.

"Put it on. And if you try to grab my hand, I’ll zap you."

Tyler takes the cap. His fingers, expecting the texture of suede, are surprised by something metallic, almost like tinfoil. He feels an unpleasant buzzing in his hand, like a mild version of the Taser’s jolt. He looks at the old man pleadingly. "Do I have to?"

Burny raises the Taser and bares his teeth in a silent grin.

Reluctantly, Ty puts the cap on.

This time the buzzing fills his head. For a moment he can’t think . . . and then the feeling passes, leaving him with an odd sense of weakness in his muscles and a throbbing at his temples.