Carmody

by Adelaide Shaw

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

In the middle of April, Dixie returned to the cellar. She had bought a new house in another town and would soon be selling this one. She saved the family mementos and news clippings and packed them in fresh cartons. Kneeling on the cellar floor she stared at the blank wall where the door had appeared. Would Carmody appear to the next occupant of the house? Dixie didn’t think so. He had chosen her to help, but no other relative before her.

But what if she were to fall upon hard times again? Had she taken enough to prevent that? Who would help her if she needed it? This house held the possibility of a rescue, if only as a place to live. She left the mementos in the cellar. She would keep the house.

* * *

Dixie’s new life was comfortable, not grand, but contentment was elusive. She sold the jewels and gold and silver coins as needed, investing the money to provide an income. There was no pressure of poverty, no fear of eviction or repossession, yet a vague unease haunted her dreams. Another visit to the secret room would settle her fears, vanish her troubled visions of Kimberly crying because of the cold.

Carmody was there before she finished calling his name, sitting on the trunk, surrounded by the strange light.

“Are you Jerry’s great-great-uncle? I found some news clippings about you.” When Carmody didn’t answer, she tried again. “Did you fall from the bridge or jump?” There must be something Carmody would tell her. “Why was Megan with you? Did you know she would climb on the rail, too?”

“She did whatever I did, went wherever I went. But they stopped her.” The smile left Carmody’s face as if he knew he had said too much on the subject. He withdrew his hand from behind him, producing the candle. “Ready?” he asked.

Dixie returned to the house several more times for a midnight rendezvous with Carmody. The old house at night no longer held any terrors for her. Nor did her dreams of her future. No longer hiding her wealth, Dixie moved again, gilding her lifestyle with frills and embellishments unknown and unthought of before. Her memories of Jerry and of her time spent in the old house were fading. When she thought of them it was as if she were thinking of someone else.

On each visit to the cellar Dixie attempted to engage Carmody in conversation. “Did you jump?” she inquired again. “Why did your father leave? Were you always so reckless when playing?”

Each time Carmody wouldn’t answer, but only pressed his lips together into his usual enigmatic smile and asked, “Ready?” Only once did he break his silence, and then it was to ask about Kimberly. Did she still cry in the night and was she lonely? “Some day,” he said, “we’ll meet. She’ll come here with you.”

“No!” Dixie said. Her concern over Carmody’s purpose had receded as her wealth accumulated. Had she called him too often? Was he now going to demand payment? She would soon have to stop these visits, anyway. The candle had gotten smaller, and as it shrunk in size, so did the opening to the secret room.

A week before Kimberly’s fifth birthday she returned to the cellar with a sack for the last time. With each visit, Dixie, constrained by the striking of the clock, divided her concentration between counting the bongs and filling a container. The entire procedure had become routine, but she would have to work fast. Getting in and out of the narrow opening would consume precious seconds, leaving just a few bongs of the clock during which she could gather the treasure.

She didn’t speak to Carmody except to call his name, and his single response was “Ready?” Once inside the room, Carmody said, “Tell Kimberly, Happy Birthday.” Dixie had no time to react to this break with his customary silence. She had lost count of the bongs of the clock, and, as she pushed herself through the tight opening, she dropped her bag. The door shut, leaving her empty-handed and angry. If Carmody hadn’t distracted her she would have succeeded. She would have to go back. All she needed was one more visit. This one had been a complete waste.

It wasn’t until returning home that she remembered Carmody’s words. How did he know about Kimberly’s birthday? It was disturbing, his knowledge of her life, but she would soon be finished with him. She refused to think about what Carmody knew and its possible significance. For the next several days Dixie thought only of getting back inside the secret room. The opening would be even more constricted, and she wouldn’t fit.

At Kimberly’s fifth birthday party Dixie realized how little Kimberly was. Most of the other children her age were taller and heavier than she. Kimberly was like a pixie, tiny, fast and light. She could slip through the narrow opening with no problem. Dixie shuddered at the thought; it was too dangerous and frightening. She would find another way.

A few nights later Dixie attached a child’s garden rake to a long pole. In her basement she attempted thrusting it through a narrow opening into a makeshift room she had fashioned from boards and crates. The pole was unwieldy and awkward, but with practice she thought she could manage it.

“What are you doing, Mommie?” Kimberly called from the top of the basement steps.

“You should be asleep,” Dixie said, twisting around quickly and knocking over the boards.

“Why do you have my rake?” Kimberly persisted.

“It’s just a silly grown-up game,” Dixie answered, as she carried Kimberly back to bed.

The following night Dixie made the familiar drive to the old house. She experienced an unexplained apprehension. It was a warm night, clear and balmy with a full moon, but Dixie shivered as she drove through the quiet streets. Kimberly and the nanny were both asleep when she had left, but Dixie felt that she was being watched when she had crept out to her car carrying the rake.

Descending the worn cellar steps of the old house she again had the sensation of being observed and, swiveling around, she aimed the flashlight behind her.

“Can I play with the rake, too?” Kimberly asked from the top of the stairs.

Before Dixie could speak, Carmody appeared, bathed in the glowing light.

“Ohhhhhhh,” Kimberly said, giving a wide smile as she pushed past Dixie and bounded down the stairs.

“You came,” Carmody said. “I’ve waited and waited.”

“How did you get here?” Dixie said, shaking Kimberly by the shoulders.

“I sneaked in the back of the car and hid on the floor. Is this where you go when you go out late at night?”

Carmody held the candle which was hardly more than a scraping of wax with a thread of a wick on the iron holder. When he lighted it the flame burned low and weak as the clock began its chiming. When the secret room appeared, Kimberly pulled away from Dixie’s grasp and raced toward the wooden door.

“No, Kimberly! Stop!”

A shaft of light spilled from the slender opening into the darkened cellar, stretching across the floor, like a finger pointing the way. Kimberly easily squeezed herself inside. Carmody reappeared inside the room perched on a case of jewels, holding the dim candle. The glow surrounding him filled the enclosure, intensified by the gold and silver and precious stones. Kimberly’s bubbling laughter and joyous squeals chilled Dixie, stopping her heart and leaving her breathless.

“Get out!” she ordered. “Don’t play!” She looked at Carmody, who smiled that satisfied, knowing smile.

“No need to hurry,” Carmody said. He sang out the words. “There’s plenty of time, Megan.”

“For God’s sake! GET OUT! GET OUT!” Dixie screamed, the sudden realization of Carmody’s true intent coming too late.

She desperately thrust her arm inside the room, extending it as far as it would go, willing it to stretch further. Kimberly only laughed, and Carmody laughed with her. As the clock struck the last note Dixie’s fingers closed over Kimberly’s ankle and she tugged. The door shut with a sickening thud.

Dixie experienced a strange sensation on her hand and a sudden tightening in her chest. Her scream was loud and long. It filled the basement and rose up through the crumbling walls and rotting wood, shattering the burned out bulb in the light fixture above her.

She fumbled in the darkness for the flashlight in her pocket and shone it on her right hand. She screamed again. It was gone. It wasn’t just severed at the wrist. It was as if her hand had never been there. The skin was smooth and round, and except for that brief tingling when the door shut, she felt no pain.

With the anguished cry of a wounded animal, she called Kimberly’s name, shining the flashlight on the stones, searching for the door. She thought she heard a noise and turned sharply, but it was only the wind outside. Pressing her ear against the wall she listened.

“CARMODY,” she screamed into the stones. “Let her go. She’s not Megan. She’s Kimberly, Kimberly.” She said her name softly, crooning it. “Kimberly, I’m so sorry. I forgot to be afraid. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have come.”

The wind outside strengthened and found its way through the cracks and loose windows of the decaying house. Traveling through the empty rooms, across the bare floors and under the cellar door, moaning as it went, it increased and mingled with Dixie’s moaning cries until there was no other sound.

to Challenge 393...