He knows the hand will come through the window. White-gloved and sure, he knows it will come. It will raise the pane. He will run. He’s had this dream before. He doesn’t need to turn to see how far the rows of empty, crisply-made beds stretch into the distance behind him. He should run before the hand comes. He should close the window, bar all entry. He doesn’t move. He knows he should, but he can’t. Through the window, the night pushes down on the trees with its thick weight. He hears shapes beyond the glass that are too poorly lit to see. The wind blows, whistling through the thin opening. The hand comes through, its traffic-director’s glove, its tight, black cuff.

The fear is as fresh and new as it has ever been. He turns, sees the endless rows of empty, crisply-made beds stretching off in the distance. He hears the squeak of the window’s rise and the creaky anticipation of the bedsprings surrounding him. He runs. He wakes. He takes stock of himself, assures himself that he remains Roger Hempstead. He activates the intercom on his bedside table.

HEMPSTEAD: Clive.

Hempstead’s breathing is labored, loud, but the intercom’s greater silence offsets the sound. He sees his feet, how small they seem, dangling from the bed as they do.

The intercom buzzes. Clive speaks.

CLIVE: Yes, sir?
HEMPSTEAD: Did I wake you?
CLIVE: No, sir.
HEMPSTEAD: I’ve had the dream.
CLIVE: Guests, sir?
HEMPSTEAD: The leaves—they’ve turned, have they not?
CLIVE: Yes, sir. I’ll wake the staff, at once… Sir?
HEMPSTEAD: Yes
CLIVE: Did you see them, sir? The guests…will they, do you suppose, be like you and I?
HEMPSTEAD: Have they ever?
CLIVE: No, sir. I’ll wake the staff.

The guests arrive in time, two of them. They are welcomed by Clive, invited to leave their coats, and shown to their rooms. Names are exchanged: Merle, for one; Conrad, for another. The protocols are understood by all, observed. Hempstead remains unseen, unmentioned. The guests are free to wander.

MERLE: So, this is the house.
CONRAD: I’d say it’s a bit more than a house.
MERLE: Estate, then.
CONRAD: It is.
MERLE: Shall we have a look?
CONRAD: No point. I’ve seen it, seen it through and through.
MERLE: You’ve been here before, then?
CONRAD: No. Certainly not. I only know that through yonder door is the large heart of a fabled rhinoceros.
MERLE: And through that one lies the body of my late love. Yes, I suppose you’re right.
CONRAD: Doors. Doors and doors with only space between.
MERLE: And we’ll dine soon. And we’ll sleep.
CONRAD: And we’ll leave.
MERLE: Only as much as anyone does, only in certain senses, I mean.

In the parlor, the guests take drinks. The chairs and the warmth lead them to lazy descriptions of the contents of their rooms. Hempstead listens through the intercom, preferring the noise of their voices to that of the pain in his hands. At the door to his chamber, dressed in shadows—as has long been custom—stands Clive.

CLIVE: Sir.
HEMPSTEAD: Yes, Clive.
CLIVE: The hour arrives. Shall I lay out your clothes?
HEMPSTEAD: Yes. I think that will do.
CLIVE: Very good.
HEMPSTEAD: Clive?
CLIVE: Yes, sir.
HEMPSTEAD: Do you suppose you exist in the hours during which I sleep?
CLIVE: Sir, in my years of service, I’ve never known you to sleep.
HEMPSTEAD: The truth, then—
CLIVE: Self-evident, sir.

The guests await Hempstead in the dining hall. The servants await instructions.

MERLE: Do you know your part?
CONRAD: As well as any.
MERLE: I may be frightened.
CONRAD: Of course you are.
MERLE: Still, I regret little.
CONRAD: Good, but it’s more than you know. You’ll see.

Hempstead arrives. He takes his seat at the table’s head. He raises his glass.

HEMPSTEAD: We once were men.
MERLE: And fierce.
CONRAD: Monsters in our prime.
HEMPSTEAD: To teeth.
CONRAD: To claws.
MERLE: To ends without purpose.

They drink. The table is set with food. They eat. The glasses are filled. The plates are cleared. The glasses are, again, filled.

HEMPSTEAD: Gentlemen, you’ve named your ghosts?

The guests nod.

HEMPSTEAD: We tend to the skeletons of our bread.

The toast done, the master retires. The guests, too, retreat to their rooms, allowing their fingers to linger over the door handles they meet along the way. They sleep without dreams. They wake. They collect their coats. They offer their thanks. They exit.

Hempstead sleeps. He knows the hand will come through the window. White-gloved and sure, he knows it will come. It will lift the pane, and he will run. He’s had this dream before.

Timestamp: 02.12.08 at 07:34 AM. Filed under: Fiction.