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Subject: {ASSM} [Otzchiim] The Back Road (M/F, cons, horror)
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Otzchiim@aol.com

                          THE BACK ROAD

     As soon as Jim Webster saw the house, he knew that it was where he
wanted to live, though the match might not have been an obvious one to
most.  It was an old house, a large and well-constructed one, while he was
young, barely twenty-three years old, though he had sometimes been told
by women that he was large and well-constructed also.  But he liked the
look of it.
     The house was four stories high, one of eight in this back road.  All the
others had been built on a smaller pattern than this, all identical to each
other, and all were covered on the outside by a thick growth of ivy and an
air of unfriendliness.
     "I think this neighborhood badly needs some livening up," he thought
as he unlocked the door and walked in.
     The house was very satisfactory on the inside as well.  There was a
long winding staircase and huge old-fashioned closets almost big enough
to live in.  It was the sort of place that he had dreamed of living in if he
ever had a lot of money.  And thanks to a lottery ticket bought on impulse
last month, he did.
     He now could give up bookkeeping forever and indulge any whim --
within reason at least.  This house would take a big chunk out of the first
year's payment on the three million he won, but the only way that he could
easily spend the rest was on drugs or big gambling, or giving it away.  And
none of those were his style.
     This place was going to take some work to really get into shape, and
more to keep it that way, but he had plenty of leisure time now.  What he
couldn't do or he got tired of doing, he could hire people for.
     As he walked into the garden he thought to himself that this would take
up his time too.  The real-estate agent had seen to the house for the two
years since the last owner died, but these roses had just grown wild.
     This house was on a back road, but it seemed like the whole area was a
back road anyway.  This little road was only 20 minutes by car from
downtown, but the developers had circled around it.  No identical
crackerboxes packed together, no high-rise condos. 
It was as if the world had been warned off by these unfriendly houses.
     Jim gazed around and wondered what sort of people lived in these other
seven houses.  Probably old women and maybe one or two old men, to
judge by the lawn decorations and what he could glimpse through closed
curtains.
     That was August.  It was the middle of October before all the legal
details went through and Jim could formally take possession.  He pulled
up at noon on a Saturday in a red Maserati with Pamela Morton, his
longtime girlfriend (grown very possessive since the lottery drawing).  He
thought he saw the curtains at number 9 quiver when the car stopped, but
he wasn't sure that he hadn't imagined it.
     Jim had already had cleaning people go through the house, but Pam and
he still had a lot of work to do.  About three hours later the delivery vans
started coming, bringing food and liquor and more food.
     The housewarming party was a great success.  Everyone that Jim or
Pam knew was there, and a lot of people they didn't.  The catering trays
slowly stacked up, the empty bottles piled up, and -- except for the one
locked one -- all the eight huge bedrooms were used again and again.
     When the last guest had been packed into a taxi (that was the fourth car
left behind) Jim unlocked the master bedroom door and led Pamela in.  He
put his arms around her and slowly stripped the sparkling blue evening
gown from her.  She was a little tipsy from wine, but as responsive as ever
to the touch of his lips on her breasts.  When they lay on the silk sheets
and he slid between her thighs, she responded passionately as they
pounded their way to perfection.  He thought as he dozed off that he was
very glad to be so young and lucky.
     They spent part of Sunday cleaning up litter and debris from odd
corners and stacking things into the dishwasher.  The serious
housecleaning, and the used bedsheets, would be seen to professionally on
Monday.  Pam rode back to the city late in the afternoon with one of the
people who had abandoned a car last night, and Jim went to putter and
plan in the garden.  He was sitting there on a bench when he suddenly
became aware of the occupant of number 9.
     A formidable looking gray-haired woman was silhouetted against the
open door of the next house; a tall woman with a pallid face and a severe
black dress gathered high at the throat.
     A moment later, the woman (a Miss Cheskey, he had been told was the
name) passed down her garden steps and out of his view.  "Not quite the
life of the party," he thought with a grimace.  His mood was broken and he
went back to the house.
     Later in the evening, he drove into the city where he spent several
hours in a restaurant with friends and returned close to midnight with
Pamela.
     "Be quiet, Pam," he warned when she slammed the door of her car. 
"These neighbors are going to be uptight about me anyway, without
advertising that I'm bringing home a woman this late.  I mean, they
couldn't know for sure that you slept here last night."
     "Well, let's not leave the old farts in any doubt!" she said.  She blew
her
horn and the echoes ran down the sleeping road.
     She laughed hysterically and ran up the steps of the house.  They sat
there for an hour talking and laughing, until he reminded her that she was
planning to work tomorrow and he also had to see some people in the
morning about the final catering bill.
     "What must that old Cheskey woman be thinking?  She probably wants
to kill Pam and I, at least she looks it.  Gad, I'm sleepy!"
     Pam used her mouth to wake him up, and he tired both of them out
again.
     The next afternoon Jim was going over some paperwork concerning the
house when one of the cleaning people told him that there was a woman to
see him.  To his astonishment, Martha Cheskey walked in, more austere
and unapproachable than ever in her plain-to-ugly coat and with her gray
hair compressed and concealed by a large black hat.  One glance told him
that she was not on a friendly mission, but he chose to ignore that.  He
offered her coffee and told her that tea and pastries or cookies were easily
available.
     "I've no use for tea or coffee and I don't eat cakes," said Miss Cheskey
without even the ghost of a softening smile.  "But I will sit down for a
moment.  Mr. Webster, I've come on an unpleasant errand.  I don't know
how you'll take what I have to say but we mean it very seriously and I beg
of you to give my words thought.  Mr. Webster, we -- I speak for the rest
of my co-residents -- we want you to leave this house, to move from this
road."
     James Webster stared at the woman in complete bewilderment.  For a
moment he thought that he must have misheard.  As the hard unyielding
gaze met his own, he began speaking in a low tone with a trace of anger.
     "Miss Cheskey, you must be insane," he said.  "I've only just moved in
here -- I love living in this place -- and why, tell me, would you think I
would go just because you tell me to?  Tell me, for that matter, why you
should come ask me to leave.  I have never spoken to you before and I
cannot have done you any harm."
     Miss Cheskey gazed at the handsome young face opposite, the arched
eyebrows, the strong cheekbones, and her eyes seemed to harden and her
mouth to take on a firmer and more unrelenting line.
     "Just listen to me for a moment, Mr. Webster.  I will take you into my
confidence and you should realize why I must ask you to leave this road. 
First, I must tell you that I have lived here for nearly thirty years.  Most of
the other residents have been here longer.  Only Miss Mullens is what you
might call a newcomer.  She has been here for ten years, and is only forty
or so.  She is the youngest of us.
     "We have all had unhappy lives.  Mrs. Heather at number 4 has a
half-witted husband living with her.  Miss Wilson's lover deserted her on
her wedding day.  Mr. Cramer has lung disease and was never able to
marry or work steadily.  I won't bore you with further details, but I could
give you similar stories about everyone living here.  As I've said, we've all
had unhappy lives and naturally -- yes, naturally we resent someone living
here who is young and -- and in the swim of life.  It would be different if
you were quiet, but you keep on night after night with these women and
your parties, making our own lives duller than ever by comparison and --
we want you to go.  The widower who lived here before you was bad
enough in his way.  We want to keep our backwater as a backwater and
not be reminded of the world that has passed us by."
     Jim stared at the woman in amazement.
     "You mean to tell me," he said at last, "that you expect me to leave this
house because you are jealous.  I'm sorry that you have all had unhappy
lives, but I can't believe that I should give up this house to please you. 
Miss Cheskey, you can tell your friends that I have no intention of leaving
this house or this road.  I intend to carry on with my wild wanton woman
and my parties night after night -- I've been here two nights so far -- and
perhaps," his voice turned mocking, "if you are all very good I'll invite you
one evening to one of my decadent orgies."
     Miss Cheskey went white to the lips.
     "This is not a joke, Mr. Webster.  Remember that you can settle
anywhere with your friends, and that this road means everything to us. 
Think it well over, Mr. Webster, and take my advice to reconsider you
decision."
     And the tall angular figure strode stiffly from the house.
     "That woman has brass balls!" he shouted to the empty room.  "I don't
know if anybody would believe this!"
     He was impressed again later that day with how out of time this road
was when the cable television people came.  They complained about how
far they had to string the wires just to connect this one house; it seemed
that absolutely no one back here had ever been interested.  It was as if all
the 2% of the county that didn't have cable lived on this road.  Many did
not even have antennas up for the local stations.
     The next Saturday night there was a smaller but noisier party at the
house.  Noisier because the weather was warm enough to allow Jim's early
Hallowe'en party to be held outdoors.  He felt like showing a contempt for
Miss Cheskey and the road in general.  There were fewer people using the
spare bedrooms (almost none, from later evidence) but one couple went to
the far corner of the garden.  He did not see that they really did much,
though, other than get dirt on their costumes.  But it gave him a thrill of
satisfaction to see a white-clad figure at number 9 slam down the window.
     "Poor old farts," he muttered to himself at the end.  "But I don't see
why I should be thrown out of this house to please them.  They will just
have to accept that I'll never be one of them."
     The next two months went quietly, at least by Jim's standards if not his
neighbors'.  He had only a half-dozen friends in at a time, and only on
some weekends, and of course Pamela more often than that.  At Pam's
suggestion, the house and grounds were used for a Thanksgiving dinner
and party for a horde of children from Big Brothers, but the group brought
the food and did all the cooking.  He only had to say a few words at the
start, then he and Pam could watch from the bedroom window.  And spend
an hour cleaning up the next day.
     After this he received a terse note signed by the residents of the road
asking if he had reconsidered his decision.  He sent a reply to Miss
Cheskey that he saw no reason to change his mind.  He heard nothing
more and assumed that they now were willing to take him as he was.
     He gradually met his neighbors of the road and recognized how old and
tired-looking they were.  Miss Wilson had dead white hair and
expressionless eyes.  Mrs. Heather had a bloodless face and a scrawny
neck.  Mr. Cramer looked more dead than alive.  Miss Mullens had a
continual expression of venomous hatred.  And Miss Cheskey was
tight-lipped and grim.
     The only cheerful encounters were with the postman, Mr. Cunningham. 
He was glad to have someone greet him each morning, and actually get
mail regularly, unlike the rest of the road.  He agreed with Jim that the
world seemed to have avoided this place, and added something more. 
Cunningham said that Miss Cheskey did not seem to have aged at all in
the twenty-two years he had been on this route.  Jim wondered what this
meant about Miss Cheskey's age.  She looked seventy, and said she had
lived here thirty years.  But if she looked seventy twenty-two years ago,
she might have retired to this road and be close to ninety.
     The postman added that half the other neighbors didn't seem to change
much anymore.   The only exception now was Mr. Heather, the man at
number 4 who had never recovered from a head injury, and was showing
his age.  And Joe Davies, who had lived in Jim's house, had died of heart
failure in his sleep.  But Cunningham said that Mr. Davies had never liked
his neighbors much anyway, since they always complained about his
children and grandchildren coming to visit.
     "The rest of them seem to have found a fountain of youth," the postman
said once.  "Only somebody dumped formaldehyde in it."
     Jim wondered at times if perhaps he should not sell this place and move
after all, but he doubted that he could find another house he liked as much. 
And to be honest, he was too stubborn to let them win at this.  It wasn't so
much the gap in age that made him dislike these people.  He did not think
that his grandmother would get along with them either.  The people on this
road had gotten old without seeming to have lived along the way, he
thought.
     In early December he spent a day with Pamela addressing invitations to
a combination New Year's and wedding party.  They were going to marry
at City Hall on December 31st, just in time to play around with tax
deductions, then have a wedding reception at the house.  The
announcements said that the bride and groom would disappear at midnight
so that they could start the new year with a bang!  (The phrasing was
Pam's idea.)  Bill Taylor had agreed to run the party if they didn't feel like
coming back from the bedroom later.
     He came home to find a note from Miss Cheskey put through his door. 
The note said:

     Dear Mr. Webster:
          Christmas is come again.  I am having the people on the road in at
     seven o'clock on the 24th.  Would you care to join us?  We would all be 
     very pleased to see you.
                         Martha Cheskey.

     "Well, I can't say it's a thing I will look forward to," he thought, "but
it
might look better if I went.  I suppose they all want to make peace.  I hope
Mrs. Heather doesn't bring her loony husband."
     On the evening of Friday the 24th, he dressed in a dinner jacket and
silk tie, feeling rather overdressed for such a simple thing.  Pamela was not
joining him; she didn't really want to and the quarrel had never been with
her anyway.  She would be here early Christmas to take him to her parents'
home.
     When he stood outside number 9, there was no light in the hall or the
front of the house, and he almost turned back.
     Just then the door opened, the lights came on, and Miss Cheskey stood
there grimly gay in a dress 25 years out of date.  Behind her was Miss
Mullens, hideous in pink and with blotches and warts on her sallow skin. 
Her eye riveted themselves on Jim's face and stayed.
     The table was spread with a variety of dishes.  All the inhabitants of the
road were there, even Miss Patterson from number 6, whom Jim had never
seen before.  She was an ugly little cripple whose smile came close to a
leer.
     The time passed fairly pleasantly, all things considered.  To be sure,
Miss Mullens never said a word and glared hatefully the whole time, while
the extreme ugliness of Miss Patterson made his face change in spite of
himself every time he glanced her way.
     Suddenly Miss Cheskey said: "You spend so much time with your
young lady that I suppose you'll soon marry and move back to the city for
the good schools when the babies come, won't you?"
     "We do plan to marry."  He saw no reason to tell them how soon.  "But
if we have children, the schools near here are quite good enough.  I am
afraid that my fiancee also likes the house too much to think of moving."
     There was silence for a moment, then Miss Cheskey spoke in her rather
monotonous voice.
     "So we shall have you always, you and that woman also.  And you will
go on with your parties and we'll never be quiet or peaceful again.  Well,
no doubt we shall get used to each other.  Here, Mr. Webster, have some
of my rose wine.  You've talked so, you must be dry.  It's flavored with
mint leaves, I should warn you."
     She smiled thinly and went on.
     "Mr. Webster, did I ever tell you how I came to be living here alone? 
I've told you about some of the other people here, but I've never told you
my own story, have I?"
     "No," answered Jim.  The wine tasted odd, but not unpleasant.  A bit
strong for what it was, perhaps.
     "Did you ever hear of Dr. Martha Westover?"
     "Westover," he mused.  "Why, yes, I have.  She was a very promising
researcher in cell growth and decay.  There have been several articles
arguing -- without much proof, I gather -- that she was forced out of her
career by male chauvinism.  But nobody knows, because she vanished
altogether maybe twenty-five years ago."
     "Yes," said Miss Cheskey.  "Though there was no force of that sort at
all.  I was she.  Westover was my husband's name, and I dropped it when
he left me, like all other reminders of him.  I was almost to a major
discovery about the life-cycle of cells, and everything hinged on one
experiment.  My experiment went horribly wrong, but also succeeded in
its intent.  Even now I do not know whether the side-effect was inherent or
not, but I no longer care.  I came back here alone to spend my years in
seclusion.  I could tell people that Martha Westover had gone away and I
did not know where.  That person was not I -- the lack of connection was
obvious.  Can you wonder that I hate to be reminded of everything I have
lost?"
     Fascinated, Jim could not imagine why this woman lied to him so
blithely.  Martha Westover was somewhat of a local celebrity.  When she
vanished she was not yet thirty, and would be less than fifty-five now. 
This woman was much older -- very much, by the postman's testimony. 
Miss Cheskey refilled his glass of rose wine.
     "Thank you for telling me all this.  It must have been a dreadful
disappointment to you.  I really should leave soon: I have presents to wrap
and things to do tonight."
     "Just another moment, Mr. Webster.  We must drink to many future
years together, the whole group of us," said Miss Cheskey.
     Jim stood and drank, but did not hope for it to come true.  As he left,
Miss Mullens called to him, "I'm certain that you will be one of us soon!"
     The night was growing chilly, and it looked like snow by morning.  As
he walked home, he shivered less from the chill than from the idea of
spending every year with such people.
     In truth, there was not much for him to do at home.  This was just as
well, because he turned in early with the taste of mint still in his mouth
and a slightly uneasy stomach.
     The next morning, he woke when Pamela's car drove up, crunching
down the new snow, and he got out of bed feeling sick and weak.  He got
to the bedroom door barely in time to meet her as she let herself in and
bounced up the stairs.
     She screamed in horror when she saw him.  He glanced down for the
first time at his withered veined hands, and turned to the ancient face in
the mirror.  Whatever had been done to him, it had made him one of the
neighbors now.


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