The Nightmare People

3.

“Hey, George,” he said into the phone as he lay back on the motel bed.

“That you, Ed?” George’s voice was calm and familiar.

“Yeah,” Smith said. “How’s life treating you lately?”

“Not bad, not bad. You gonna be at the poker game this month?”

“That’s a week from Friday, right?”

“Right, and it’ll be right here at my place.”

“Yeah, I expect I’ll be there. In fact… well, listen, George, I have a favor to ask.”

“Ask away; what’s up?”

“Well, see, there’s a problem with my apartment. In fact, I’m calling from a motel; I had to move out. Is your living room couch still vacant?” He tried not to sound as if he were begging.

George hesitated, and Smith’s heart sank.

“Jeez, Ed,” he said at last, “I don’t know. I mean, nobody’s sleeping on the couch, but Bridget’s been…” He let his sentence trail off unfinished.

“Oh,” Smith said. He paused for a moment, trying to decide how badly he needed somewhere else to stay, and then asked, “You think that would be a problem? I mean, it wouldn’t bother me.”

“Well, yeah,” George said, slightly annoyed. “I think it might have something of an inhibiting effect, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Smith acknowledged.

For a moment both men were silent; then George said, “Look, if it’s an emergency, maybe for a day or two…”

“No, that’s all right,” Smith said, a trifle reluctantly. “I can stay at the motel. At least for now.”

“Okay. Hey, I’m sorry; if the situation changes, I’ll let you know. And if I come across any good apartments I’ll give you a call.”

“Fine. Thanks, George. Really. I’m at the Red Roof Inn in Gaithersburg, room 203.”

“Right.”

“Right. Well, guess I’ll see you at the poker game.”

“Yeah. See you.”

He hung up.

It would seem, Smith thought wryly, that he was not going to be staying with good old George down in Bethesda.

Well, he could find an apartment easily enough. Right across Route 124 there were plenty of apartments, and there were bound to be vacancies – maybe not right now, but reasonably soon.

Then he’d have to go and get all his stuff out of his old apartment – maybe it was just as well he’d never really finished unpacking everything. That meant spending at least a couple of hours at the Bedford Mills complex, with the monsters all around – if they were real. That was a daunting prospect.

At least he’d be able to get George to help – he could play on the guilt about his refusing the couch.

But right now, he didn’t have much to do. He couldn’t go apartment-hunting at this hour, or call the police, and while he’d have been able to work if he were already there, he couldn’t get into the building this late; they locked up at six, and he didn’t have a key yet.

And all his books and records and tapes were back in his apartment, damn it.

He sighed, turned on the TV, and sat on the bed.

Midway through the Tonight Show, where Jay Leno was filling in for Johnny Carson, Smith came to a conclusion.

When you aren’t tired or sleepy or doing anything else, when there are things you’d like to do but can’t, and when you’re all alone in a motel room, watching late-night television is really, really boring.

Worst of all, the television didn’t distract him from worrying about when that nightmare face was going to peer in his window again. His earlier cheerful optimism had faded once night had settled in, the sky had darkened, and the traffic had started to thin.

And not only is late-night TV boring, he decided, but motel rooms are depressing.

Sitting in a motel room watching late-night TV was stupid. There had to be something better to do!

Well, a mere twenty miles away was the heart of the nation’s capital, and after living in Diamond Park for three months he still hadn’t seen most of the monuments and attractions. Except for one weekend in May when he’d driven around the Mall unsuccessfully hunting a parking space, he hadn’t been into the District at all in that time.

Midnight probably wasn’t the best time, but at least parking should be easier.

He got up and shut off the TV, then checked through his pockets to make sure he had his license and keys. He glanced out the window.

For an instant he thought he saw something moving, something dark and red-eyed, but when he stepped closer there was nothing there.

Imagination, he told himself, just imagination. This whole thing had him horribly jumpy.

He hoped it was just his imagination, but he had never imagined seeing things before.

He stood at the window for a moment, staring out. He saw Denny’s and the Shell station and Route 124, and no sign of any monsters.

He opened the door and left the room.