The Nightmare People

2.

Nobody had paid any attention to him as he had made his way from the car to his apartment; in fact, he had seen no sign of life anywhere in the complex. No children played in the grassy area between the two sections of parking lot; no housewives were sunning themselves on the balconies.

He had to put the pistol down on the floor to unlock the apartment door. As the door swung inward, the thought suddenly struck him that his own particular monster might be lurking inside, ready to pounce, and he quickly knelt and grabbed the gun.

The air conditioning was still out, and hot air poured out over him as he stood up.

Remembering at the last moment what Elias had said, he stopped his finger from touching the trigger.

Nothing jumped out at him.

Gun in hand, no longer concealed, he stepped into his own living room, ignoring the heat.

“Anyone home?” he called.

A car horn suddenly sounded from outside, an almost nasal beep, repeated four times in quick succession.

Startled, he spun to face the windows, and then, realizing where he was, he spun again, looking first back out into the stairwell, and then down the little hallway to the bedroom.

Nothing.

He swung the door closed, and listened carefully to be sure it latched. Then he marched across the room and peeped out through the drapes, the gun held up, pointing at the ceiling, the way the actors always held their guns on all those cop shows on TV.

Elias was looking up at him through his car’s sloping windshield; the boy waved.

Smith waved back.

That had almost certainly been his own car’s horn he’d heard; Elias had beeped at him about something. The wave had been calm, though, not a signal that something was wrong.

Well, he’d figure it out later.

He crossed to the kitchen, put the gun down on the counter, and picked up the phone. The Goodwins’ number was written in felt tip on the edge of the memo pad he kept there; he read it over, then dialed.

On the third ring, someone answered. “Hello?” said a familiar childish voice.

“Sid?” he said.

He hadn’t thought of that. Monster or no, he didn’t think he could shoot a little kid. Sid was… the real Sid had been eight.

“This is Sidney Goodwin; who’s this?”

“This is Mr. Smith, upstairs in C41.” He couldn’t face Sid. Nor ten-year-old Harry nor twelve-year-old – or was it thirteen? – Jessie. “Is Bill around?”

“Yeah, he is; do you want to talk to him?”

“No, but if he’s not busy, I could use a hand moving some of this stuff up here.”

“Hang on a minute, Mr. Smith.” A series of bumps came over the line, and then voices, too low to make out the words, and then the Sid thing came back on.

“He’ll be right up, Mr. Smith. He’ll knock.”

“Thanks, Sid.”

He hung up.

The imitation Bill Goodwin would be right up. His target was on its way, about to walk right in.

He picked up the gun, and then looked around the living room, trying to decide where he should stand.

Then he felt the weight of the pistol, and thought about recoil and whether his hands might shake, and he decided he didn’t want to stand anywhere.

Instead he sat down in the back corner, leaning back against the wall with his knees up, facing the door. He took the gun firmly in both hands and pointed it at the door.

That should work.

He lowered the gun.

A moment later he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, followed by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called, “It’s open!”

He lifted the gun.