The Entity, page 3
In the kitchen she put a bowl of fruit and a box of cornflakes on the table for their breakfast. Before leaving she wakened the girls for school. The house was stuffy, claustrophobic. She stepped out into the bright light of day, got into her car, and drove off to the secretarial school.
2
1:17 a.m. October 14, 1976
Carlotta slept in the huge bed. She woke, hearing micelike noises through the walls. Scratching and coming on through. Then she smelled something terrible. It was the stench of meat left to rot. Carlotta sprang upright.
She was struck on the left cheek. The blow spun her half around, almost knocking her over, and she put out her arm to brace herself. Then her arm was pulled out from under her. Her face was forced into the blanket. A great pressure was on the back of her head, the nape of her neck, pushing her down from behind.
She kicked behind her, touching nothing. A powerful arm grabbed her around the waist and pulled her up, so that she was on all fours. Her nightgown was lifted up over her back and—from behind—she was violated. The intense thing—the giant dimension of it—the pain of it finding so quickly the entrance and thrusting so fast inside, ramming away like that’s all she was, that place, and not a human being at all.
This time the blanket onto which her face was pushed was not so perfect a gag as the night before when she had nearly suffocated under the pillow. She could half-scream through the fistful of wool. Try as that hand would, it couldn’t silence the gasping, frightened half-cry of a woman in agony.
She heard a laugh. A demented laugh. Neither male nor female. Lewd, lascivious. She was being watched.
“Open, cunt—” the voice chortled.
Carlotta bit the hand. Was it substance she met? Yes, the teeth went into a flexible substance, but it drew away easily. A blow on the back of her head sent sparks shooting into her eyes. Why didn’t he finish? The whole bed was rocking.
The light was on. Just like last night. Only this time instead of Billy with his hand on the light switch she saw their neighbor, Arnold Greenspan. Greenspan looked ridiculous. An old man with knobby knees, an overcoat thrown on over his pajamas, a tire iron in his hand. What was he going to do with that iron, a feeble old man like that? He looked scared to death.
“Mrs. Moran!” he was shouting. “Mrs. Moran!! Are you all right?”
He looked so strange, bellowing at the top of his lungs, when he was only three feet away. Why was he shouting? It was because Carlotta was screaming. She tried to stop, but her body shook in spasms and gasps.
“Mrs. Moran!!” was all he could say.
Now Billy’s terror-ridden face poked in from the door under Greenspan’s elbow. Carlotta was gazing blankly at both of them, shivering and quaking like some dumb beast. Greenspan was looking at her breasts, swollen and reddened, like they had been wrenched at.
“Billy,” Greenspan said. “Go call the police. Tell the operator—”
Carlotta tried to clear her mind.
“No,” she said. “Don’t.”
“Mrs. Moran,” Greenspan said, “you’ve been—”
“I don’t want the police.”
Greenspan lowered the tire iron. He approached the bed. His eyes were moist. Concern seemed to tremble in the very tone of his voice.
“Wouldn’t it be best to speak with someone?” he said. “They have women police.”
Greenspan had no doubt what had happened. It was no nightmare as far as he was concerned.
“I don’t want to go through all that,” Carlotta said. “Leave me alone.”
Greenspan watched her. The confusion in his own mind mounted. Billy came to the bed.
“The same thing happened last night,” Billy said.
“Last night?” Greenspan said.
Carlotta was coming down from her hysteria. Bit by bit rational thought was weaving its way through the dark labyrinth of fear in her brain.
“Oh, God!” she wept. “God in heaven!”
Greenspan was peering hard at Carlotta.
“I remember hearing something last night,” he said. “But I thought —my wife said, it was—you know—men and women, they were just fighting. I thought it was something else, but I—”
“That’s all right,” Carlotta said.
Only now did she become aware that the elderly gentleman was in the presence of a naked woman. She drew the sheet around her, pinning it against her side with her arm. There was an awkward silence.
“Wouldn’t you like some coffee?” Greenspan said. “Some hot chocolate?”
His voice was changing. It had lost that tone of emergency. His kindness was coming through. Why did that bother Carlotta?
“No,” Carlotta said. “Thank you.”
“You’re sure? Something? Please, Mrs. Moran. You and the children. You come over to our place. We have the room. You sleep there tonight. Tomorrow we can talk about it. You should see somebody . . .”
“No,” Carlotta said. She was rational now. “I’m all right.”
“Last night it was even worse,” Billy said.
Suddenly Carlotta knew what was bothering her. Why had Greenspan put down the tire iron? Why didn’t he think that somebody was in the house? In the closet. Why wasn’t he checking the windows? She spun around. Of course the windows were still locked tight from last night. Why wasn’t an old man like that afraid anymore? Why hadn’t he dashed into the bathroom, slamming at something unknown behind the shower curtain with that silly and impotent weapon of his?
“You’ve caused yourself some harm, Mrs. Moran,” Greenspan said. “You ought to be attended to.”
That was it. Greenspan no longer believed the same thing he had when first he had flipped on the light and, terrified, had seen his neighbor obviously raped and beaten. Now he was too solicitous, and his concern was slightly too gentle.
“Mrs. Greenspan—she can make you something nice. She can stay here with you if you like.”
He thought she was drunk. Doped up. You could see it in his eyes. They were curious, observing the symptoms, as it were, of this odd and unusual malady. She hated him for this.
“What time is it?” she said.
“Two o’clock,” Billy said.
“You’ve been alone all evening?” Greenspan said.
“Just the children,” Carlotta said. “Look. I’m fine. One of those damn crazy nightmares. Scared the daylights out of me. But I’m all right now. Really all right.”
She slipped on the robe, turning modestly away from Greenspan, dressing over the sheet and then letting the sheet fall back to the bed. Christ, she had needed some sleep, she thought, as she tightened the cord around her waist.
“Let’s get out of this room,” she said.
They went through the hallway into the living room.
“Go on home, Mr. Greenspan,” Carlotta said. “Everything is fine.”
“Fine? Look, I’m not so sure—”
“Really. Fine. Absolutely.”
Greenspan looked at her directly.
“Of course, I’m much older than you, but I know a lot about life. So does Mrs. Greenspan. About things. You have to talk to someone. You have to explore this thing. I want you to feel free to come over and have some coffee with us. And talk. About whatever you want.”
“I will,” she said. “Goodnight, Mr. Greenspan.”
After he left, Carlotta closed the door and locked it again. Billy looked at her. They were both silent for some time. Carlotta didn’t know what to do, what to say. Her mind was reeling around and around, like a slow carousel.
“I didn’t mean to kick him out,” she said. “I just wanted to think by myself for a while.”
“Sure, Mom.”
“You think I’m going crazy?”
“Oh, Mom. Of course not.”
She drew him to her. Good old Billy, she thought. Good kids were hard to find, but she had one.
“What am I going to do?” she said.
There was no answer.
It was a grisly repetition of the night before. The girls stood at the entrance to the living room. This time they were sniffling as though they were sick. Scared sick.
Carlotta sat on the couch. Her breasts felt like they had been pulled out from her chest. Billy lay down in the big easy chair, but nobody turned on the television set. Carlotta did not sleep. Because it had happened and it hadn’t happened. It was and it wasn’t. She had been awake and yet she had awakened from it. Her body was sore in all the tender areas. Now her mind searched through the events of the last two nights, trying to piece together an answer.
The arm—she had felt the arm. The penis—only too real. Urgent, but not really warm. But hard as could be. The weight on her. That she was not so sure about. It felt more like a pressure than an actual physical weight, more like an incredible down draft, an overwhelming gravity. There was no real sensation of something like a body on her, except for the hands and the penis.
Carlotta jumped awake. She knew she would never really sleep tonight. Two nights without sleep. Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. Every sound, every movement of the children, every buzz, creak, and scratch in the house snapped her awake.
What about the voice? The demented old voice? It came from a smaller body, it seemed, like a—she pictured a crippled old man, without legs, though she had never seen anything, either night. Had she heard the voice? Had she imagined the voice? Was there a difference?
The darkness turned to a grayness and then a slow rectangle of light was forming on the wall. Daylight. The alarm went off. Billy awoke in the easy chair, but he was too tired to move. Carlotta could not, would not rise. The buzzing continued like a soft and very angry fly. Slowly it whimpered off and went silent.
Carlotta looked at the kitchen clock. It was nearly 8:00. She had to move fast. The school took attendance and reported you for absenteeism. Her neck felt bruised. She drew the cord of her robe more tightly around her. She thought about Jerry. Where was he? Six more weeks on the road. Six weeks before she would see him again. She needed him. He was solid. She needed somebody now. It was like a premonition. Life was turning over, going terrible all of a sudden. Why? She lay down heavily, folded her arms, and fell asleep.
She woke up. Billy was gone. Her groggy mind tried to piece things together. She sat on the edge of the couch, her body aching dully. It was nearly 4:00. The girls had returned from school and were out playing. She could hear them outside on the sidewalk. Then she turned and saw them through the window, writing with chalk on the cement. She went to the kitchen and reheated some coffee.
It was extremely still. She could hear the buzz of the clock on the wall. Then, everything seemed so strangely silent, like a lull between tornadoes. She thought rationally as best she could; if this thing happened one more time . . . Then what? She paused, the coffee cup suspended before her lips. Then she would clear out, that’s what. Leave the house. She had the feeling that the root of all this was the house somehow. Yes, if it happened again, they’d leave—just pick up and go. Where to? Cindy? Cindy Nash would take them in. A day. Two days. Make up some story. The house has termites and they’re spraying. What the hell. Cindy was a good friend. She needed no stories. They could stay there a week if they needed to. Maybe Jerry would come home earlier. He did that occasionally. He’d just drop in between cities. Quick layover for a night—sometimes a weekend. Carlotta smiled wanly. Damn. Why didn’t he leave a number? Or ever think to call her? She drank the coffee. It was already lukewarm. What if Cindy couldn’t take them in? What if George objected? What if? Carlotta furrowed her brow, but no answer came. There was no answer to that. Just have to wait and hope that nothing—
Billy came up the walk from school. The rest of the world was coming home from work and she was just waking up. A growing feeling of darkness hovered in her mind, as though something, perhaps her whole life, was sliding into an abyss if she didn’t watch out and make exactly the right moves.
“Hi, Mom,” Billy said.
“What’s making you so happy?”
“I’m secretary of the auto mechanics’ club. Down at school.”
“Terrific. No kidding. I never got past B-squad cheerleader.”
Billy held up a beaten, heavy gray notebook, evidently used over many semesters.
“My official ledger, see?”
“Do they know you can’t spell?”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Just kidding. Hey, don’t throw it on the couch. I’m sleeping there tonight.”
There was a silence. Billy put the books on the easy chair. He went into the bedroom, to change into old jeans so he could continue to work on the engine block in the garage.
She drank some coffee. It was cold. Tonight it was going to be the couch. If that didn’t help . . .
That night they watched television. Billy had gone to the store for milk and cheese crackers, which they all ate. Carlotta had undressed the girls for bed and tucked them in.
Around 11:30 she lay down on the couch and drew the blanket over her. Billy said nothing, but he left the door to his own bedroom open. Carlotta lay still, thinking about the last two nights. As time passed, she grew more and more worried. About the noises in the house, the unfamiliar sight of distant automobile headlights tracing distorted rectangles over the hallway, and she could not sleep. Then she realized the couch was hurting her back. Every possible position either hit a button or a bulge; there was no flat, hard surface. Her muscles were being strained no matter how she lay. She finally tried lying on her right side, staring into the darkness.
At about 2:30 she must have been dozing because she jerked awake. It was the ventilator. A tiny ping as the thermostat dropped off. She listened intently. Nothing. She could hear the children breathing in their rooms. Outside—nothing.
She closed her eyes but could not sleep. Slowly she drifted in a semi-consciousness, an awareness of half-formed images rising up out of the retinal chaos. Then she slept.
Through the next day, Saturday, a faint optimism prevailed in the house. Nothing unusual had happened. Except for a sore lower back, Carlotta was in good spirits. She took them all to Griffith Park, several acres of high wooded hills which, in Los Angeles, passes for wilderness. With all the families out there, Carlotta felt once again a part of the human race, doing what everybody did, feeling the way everybody felt. Even the kids seemed in an unusually lively mood. Billy found a softball game to throw himself into. They returned exhausted, late in the afternoon.
Sunday, too, passed in a normal way. Carlotta cleaned up, except for the bedroom. Billy was out with some mechanics, building, taking apart, who knew exactly what? The girls watched TV. Carlotta practiced her shorthand. It was boring, but necessary. So the hours passed. A normal day. Even the night was uneventful.
But with Monday the mood changed. Mr. Reisz, the incredibly thin and demanding instructor in shorthand and typing, called attention to Carlotta’s score. Her accuracy and speed rate were dropping. She hadn’t even noticed. It bothered her, because she had been doing so well. What if she couldn’t make it as a secretary? What if that turned out to be a rougher road than she had pictured? Was she getting trapped in some kind of failure, some kind of system designed to frustrate her? Was there some limitation in her make-up? Suddenly, it was disturbing her, this little problem with her accuracy and speed rate. Suddenly she was afraid of not being able to cope.
When she walked into the house that night the children were in a rotten state of affairs. Tension was filling the house, but nobody could tell why. Julie and Kim were scrapping on the floor. In retrospect, it all had some incredible, ominous significance, but at the time it made no particular impression on Carlotta.
“Julie hit me with the ashtray,” Kim wailed.
“I did not!”
“She did!”
“Did not!”
“Shut up,” Carlotta said. “Let me see.”
Sure enough. An angry red mark was rising along the back of Kim’s neck.
“See? She threw it at my head!”
But Julie protested her innocence. Carlotta knew, the way a mother knows, that Julie was telling the truth.
“Don’t look at me,” Billy said. “What do you think, I get my kicks beaning little kids with ashtrays?”
“Okay. Okay,” Carlotta said. “Let’s all scream at each other. Look. Mother is not in the mood to handle this sort of thing, so silence is the best idea for a while. All right?”
A moody silence prevailed.
“Well, I didn’t,” Billy muttered.
Two days with no problems at night. But on that couch, her back was going to go out permanently. Carlotta hated doctors. It always meant more pain with them. Besides, with a good night’s sleep on her own firm mattress, it would probably repair itself. This wasn’t the first time. Carlotta opened the door to her bedroom and peeked in.
The sight of the enormous bed with its heavy carved wood, its ridiculous European angels, now took on a sinister aspect, a kind of mocking, grinning look. The covers and sheets were still on the floor from the last time she had slept there. With only a slight trepidation, she entered the room. No odor. Nothing out of place besides the sheets. She stripped the bed and made it afresh.
It was 11:10. She needed rest. She needed to improve her score at school. She needed to impress Mr. Reisz. She had to show herself she was back on the right track. She slipped into the cold, fresh sheets and closed her eyes.
