Fading Light: An Anthology of the Monstrous: Tim Marquitz Read Online Free Page B

inside. The faint glow of the pumps
offered only token resistance against the gloom. She pulled down the
sleeves of her sweater as the air grew chill. The heat lay at the
door like a panting dog, refusing to enter.
    There were three figures by the bar, little more than
silhouettes. One approached them from the murk of cigarette smoke and
the little girl dropped her doll to cling to her mother’s
skirt. The figure bent to pick it up, staring at it all the while as
if he thought it might suddenly spring to life in his calloused
hands. He stood that way for a long, awkward moment, then burst into
tears.
    “My Beth had one,” he said to the little
girl, wiping the snot from his nose on a thick plaid sleeve. “My
Beth had one just like that.” He handed the doll to the mother
and left, the thunder of his work boots on the wooden slats unable to
mask his grief.
    “I’ll take Emily back out to the car and
wait for you there,” she said to her husband, who nodded,
heeding the unspoken order in her voice.
    He strolled over to the bar and saw the man at the far
end hunch apprehensively as he drew near. The man’s face was in
shadow, a baseball cap pulled all the way down over his eyes, and on
his hands, slick black gloves creaked as he clenched and unclenched
his fists. The barman, his bald head veined and wrinkled like a
prehistoric egg, put down the glass he had been pretending to clean.
    “Bit of a ghost town you’ve got here,”
said the stranger, the echo of his voice mocking his attempt at
casualness.
    “Well,” said the barman, giving the
throwaway line much credence, “if ghosts are memories, then
this place is haunted sure enough.” Again, the creak and whine
of leather as the gloves flexed in the corner. “You must
forgive the welcome. We don’t like strangers here, and as for
the child, well … ”
    “I was wondering if there was anywhere we could
hole up for the night. We’ve been on the road all day. We’re
heading to—”
    “Then I suggest you just keep on heading.”
The man in the corner spoke for the first time. “This is no
place for children.”
    The barman sighed, poured out a glass of whiskey for the
stranger and pushed it toward him. “Maybe you should hear our
story friend, then maybe you’ll forgive us our manners.”
    “Dwight—” began the man in the
corner.
    “S’alright, Hector, he has a right to know
if he’s planning to stick around. Hell, it might even do us some good to chew it over.” He took a
large pull from the whiskey bottle, and then refilled the stranger’s
glass. “It all began when a new face, just like yourself,
dropped in one night. It was different then, swinging, jukebox up to
the max and everyone dancing. Anyway, this guy just saunters up to me
and introduces himself, says his name is … ”

    ~

    “ … Baird, pleased to make your
acquaintance.”
    “Mutual, I’m sure. Name’s Dwight,”
the barman cleaned his hands on his sodden apron, “I own this
place. What can I get you?”
    “Coke. No ice.” Baird’s voice was
little more than a whisper, yet it cut easily through the clamor.
Dwight poured his drink and passed it over, careful not to touch him.
Baird was almost unbearably thin, like a man stricken by some fatal
illness. Dwight noticed how, even though the bar was filled to
bursting, the others automatically gave him room, stepped out of his
way as if he might break on contact.
    And yet, there was cunning in his hawkish face, a sense
of strength in his eyes that belied his physical appearance. They
suggested this invalid image was just a façade, a ploy that
happened to suit his purpose. Dwight gingerly picked up the note that
Baird had somehow managed to place on the bar without him seeing; the
stranger kept his hands buried in his pockets as if he were ashamed
of them. When Dwight returned with his change, Baird looked at him as
if he found him amusing.
    “Just leave it on the bar …
Dwight.”
    Maybe that was it, maybe it was his hands,