The Room

By Sean Monaghan

Deaths haunt Kate’s dreams. Too many deaths. She holds on tight. Art keeps her centered and calm.

But for how long? How long before the race against the demon turns deadly?

Outside of the dreams.

A supernatural thriller from the author of Glass Bay and The Courier.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Triple V Publishing
• Release date: Jan 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311478474

Sean Monaghan

Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music. Award-winning author, Sean Monaghan has published more than one hundred stories in the U.S., the U.K., Australia, and in New Zealand, where he makes his home. A regular contributor to Asimov’s, his story “Crimson Birds of Small Miracles”, set in the art world of Shilinka Switalla, won both the Sir Julius Vogel Award, and the Asimov’s Readers Poll Award, for best short story. He is a past winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Award, and the Amazing Stories Award. Sean writes from a nook in a corner of his 110 year old home, usually listening to eighties music.

Book preview

Chapter One

Brad saw Lisa go over the side. The boat slewed back as another wave slammed at them from a different angle. His father was yelling, only feet away in the yacht's steering well, but his words were incomprehensible over the roar of the squall.

Graham hadn't seen his daughter fall. He'd been keeping his eyes on the boom, on the sheets, on the raging water. The wheel lurched as he struggled to keep her bow into the seas with the little motor. Checoni's engine was only ever designed for nosing around a marina. Storms like this should never come up in the sound.

Glancing down forwards at the kids, he yelled at Brad to get down below. The boy shouted back, but his words were carried off. Graham didn't see Lisa. She must already be below.

Another big wave came at them from the left, crossing the main angle of the rest. Graham hauled the wheel. Checoni's bow shifted slowly.

Get below, he yelled at Brad.

The boat wallowed in a trough. She heeled over, almost all forward momentum lost. Graham shoved at the throttle, the lever already denting the surround. The motor had nothing more to give.

Brad stood up.

Get down, Graham yelled.

Brad clutched a sheet. He was pointing off to the right.

The yacht pivoted, yawing suddenly as the big wave rose up. Hold on Brad, Graham willed. The wheel was hard over, the engine smoking.

Graham glanced to the right. A lifejacket, riding up in the smaller wave.

The tip of the bow touched water. Checoni shuddered. Spearing the wave, she plunged in. The bow came up slowly.

Lisa, Graham realized. She wasn't below at all. She was in the water. He looked around again, had a glimpse of the yellow lifejacket as it slipped over the crest. Thought he saw someone else in the water near her, dark riding the wave like a seal.

Water surged down the yacht's length.

Brad ducked, but the rush knocked him down. He slid along the wheelwell. His shoulder smacked into the wheel.

The water hit Graham like a runaway truck. With one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for Brad, he could barely hold on. The water sluiced around him, tearing at his fingers. The wheel hit his ear and he felt his skin rip. He got a hand on Brad's lifejacket.

The yacht rose on the face of the wave. The bow came up. The little motor almost held her steady, but slowly she dropped sternwards. She surfed backwards, the bow inching around.

Graham already had the rudder as far over as it would go. His feet were wedged in the corner of the wheelwell. He held the wheel with one hand, his boy with the other. Brad had swung around, his legs dangling over the transom. Water still rushed over the deck, but their buoyancy had lifted them. He pulled Brad back aboard. The bow kept coming around.

They were going to go over, he knew it. Already they were beyond fifty degrees. The keel would go, would snap off under the sheer pressure. The mast tip would touch the water and they would roll. He watched the mast keep leaning. Sixty degrees. Even if the keel held, the wave was still going to push them over.

Suddenly they cleared the crest. The bow lifted from the water, turning back and dropping down. They sped into the trough. He saw blood on his hand where he'd touched his ear.

Graham looked at the waves and turned, heading the yacht starboard again. Smaller waves. Straightening up, he felt her slide down. They rode into the trough, the bow came up easily into the next. Over the crest and down again. The waves were slackening. He could see clear air ahead. The squall was dissipating.

We're going to make it, Brad, he said. He swallowed, reached for the radio. They were going to need search and rescue for Lisa. He looked down and realized that Brad wasn't in the boat either.

Chapter Two

The dream was always different, but it always ended the same. Kate couldn't save them.

Tonight it came again. First some stranger watching, then the kids, her niece and nephew, running down to the water. There were boats, some big, like old time paddle wheelers. It felt like New Orleans, levees and swampy moss-covered trees. But it was a beach.

Kate lay in bed, hoping it wasn't morning. She felt tired. Still needed more sleep before she got up and trekked out on Long Island. The dream kept replaying in her mind.

There were ducks in the water, doing some complicated laned-off swimming race. This was how she knew it was a dream, the ducks in the lanes. The children were safe, really, at home in Greenwich, their mother already up and making them lunches, their father, her brother Graham, still asleep, the alarm snoozed for the third time.

Kate glanced at the clock. 10:27. She'd been in bed less than an hour.

The children plunged in, Brad splashing Lisa, Lisa splashing back, Graham calling to them to come have their marshmallows. The stranger watching, then Kate on the beach too, then in a small inflatable boat.

Kate sat up. 11:18. Why was she so restless? She was meeting Tim out on Long Island so he could take her out in his little boat. But that made her nervous. She was humoring him, letting him think that this was something special, something unique. It hadn't seemed like a lie, but she came from a life of going out on boats on the sound.

She smiled a little. That was the inflatable in the dream, of course. There were almost always boats.

Her family knew their way around boats, Graham owned one, their parents owned one. She'd meant to tell Tim that she'd been boating plenty already, just because she hadn't for years, and not since they'd met, didn't mean that this was something unique. He was sweet, cute, fun, but a little naive and a little prone to excess, but she enjoyed him.

Kate thought she might get herself a boat too, sometime. Not a sailing boat, but a big yacht, with a hot tub and huge master bedroom, a wet bar and perhaps its own helicopter. If she ever made any real money from art. That was just another dream that would never come true. She'd done all right, but wealth was a distant dream. She had to keep working, had to keep coming up with new ideas, still had to keep teaching night courses to bridge the gaps.

Wishing she could get back to sleep, she counted cliche sheep, imagined him, at a mountain retreat, tried to concentrate on her heartbeat. Eventually she gave up. She got out of be and went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. After warming it in the microwave for a moment, she carried the glass to stand in the studio.

Kate was mostly ready for the show. Fifteen canvases with her signature spheres in water. All stacked up against the wall. A sixteenth still on the angled painting table, just waiting for its finishing touches.

She loved two of them. But the others seemed like filler. The gallery would price them all the same, though. She wished she had another three weeks. But then, she alway felt like that.

The best two would sell right away, so she would cover costs. It was more about maintaining profile than making money.

At least she had the Lombard's commission coming up. That would pay well. Linda had earned her commission on that one.

It was going to be a busy week, with seeing Lombard's in the morning, then getting the last canvases finished for the hanging on Thursday.

She loved and hated deadlines.

Cradling the milk she glanced out the window. A car swished by. Most of the lights were on in the squat apartment building across the street. A couple walked slowly along under the streetlamps.

A man stood opposite, looking up at Kate.

Startled she jerked back, spilling the milk. She looked down. It had splashed on her legs.

When she looked back out, the man had gone. She felt chilled.

The couple came to a doorway, kissed for a long moment. They parted and she went inside. He continued along the street, with a single glance back at the door.

Too tired, Kate thought. Still half-dreaming.

She cleaned up the milk and got herself another glass. She drank it in the kitchen and went back to bed.

The dream flowed back again. The stranger watching, Graham standing over the barbecue cooking one of the ducks that had somehow plucked itself and sizzled, glistening and golden on the grill as if it was inside an oven. Kate in the inflatable.

This time there was an older girl near the stranger. The man turned to her, seeming to grow larger momentarily.

Then it was gone and Kate's dreams became about running up escalators and forgetting her wallet after placing a large coffee order. She slept.

Kate woke after seven. Late for her, but early for a Sunday.

Shivering, she swung out of bed. She showered and dressed and grabbed her bag and headed down to the garage. Her five storey Brooklyn apartment block was neatly positioned, close enough to the trains that she could quickly get a subway to Manhattan, but with city streets open and uncomplicated enough that she could get on the expressway with a minimum of fuss. Then it was an easy enough spread, depending on the time of day, to head up to Connecticut, or over the Verazzano bridge to Staten Island and to Delaware, Maryland and the Chesapeake, even take the tunnel and get over to the heart of New Jersey, though why she would ever need to stop in New Jersey, she could never think.

As the elevator trundled down, she remembered the dream again. Brad and Lisa playing in the water, Graham cooking on the grill, herself in the inflatable. She hated the way this came back. Each dream came back, each time. Replaying itself, like a clever commercial jingle you couldn't dislodge, but still couldn't even remember the product they were trying to sell you.

Why were there power lines in the water? She saw the pylons, saw the stanger high up at the insulators. Saw the blade in his hand.

The power lines sizzled and crackled. The children kept playing. Sparks spat as little waves sped along the cables. The waves carried the sparks towards the children.

Kate shouted at them to come out of the water. The sparks ran at them. Brad splashed Lisa.

The elevator jerked to a stop.

Kate ducked her head a little, looking into the garage. She never liked stepping from the elevator. Even though the garage was secure, there were lights that blinked and deep shadows between the cars. Silly really, but she often felt like someone was watching.

Clear, of course. She checked the time on her phone. 6.28. She was meeting Tim at 7.30 so she would have to move. Fortunately traffic would be light.

Beeping the Audi open, she tossed the bag on the passenger seat and got behind the wheel. The Audi was her one indulgence from the Sunken Art money. It was eight years old, had already been three years old when she'd bought it, but it was such a delicious car to drive, she figured that she could keep it at least another five years.

She started it and headed for the exit. The garage door rolled up and she nosed along the ramp onto the quiet street.

The sparks reached the children and they fell, writhing, into the water. Kate paddled the inflatable, but couldn't move. Graham kept on cooking the duck.

Leaning her forehead against the wheel, Kate waited for the feeling to pass. It was different every time. Wolves hunting them down, or a rampant disease that felled them in moments, or a fall from a height, a train wreck, a gunshot wound. Thankfully she didn't dream their deaths every night, but it was often enough that she really considered going to a shrink. Especially with the way the dream would replay itself over the following day, and through the week.

A horn blared.

She sat back. A car waited to drive into the garage. Mr EMS, whose name she didn't know. Returning from his night shift driving ambulances around Queens. She waved and he waved back. Tapping the accelerator, she nosed into the street, heading for the expressway. In her rearview, she saw Mr EMS turn into the garage, and someone walking in the street.

She blinked.

It looked like the stranger from the dream. He slipped out of view.

A shrink might be a good idea. She shook the thought aside. She'd met Tasha once, then skipped out on any formal appointments.

Chapter Three

Graham had circled into the night. The seas had become strangely relaxed, still a little rugged, but nothing like the sudden squall that had risen. Choppy enough, though, that it would be easy to miss even the bright yellow of their lifejackets as they sat low in the water. Casting his gaze around as the sky darkened, he watched for them to pop up at the crest of a wave.

He listened, sometimes turning the motor off, hoping to hear the kids blowing the whistles on their lifejackets. So often they wanted to play with the whistles, just to blow them to hear the sound, and he had to discourage them, reminding them of the story of the boy who cried wolf that they'd been told since they were so little. Years later they still wanted to blow the whistles just for the sake of it. He would just look at them and say wolf and they would roll their eyes at him.

He prayed to hear the whistles now.

A helicopter had come in, responding to his radio call. It ranged around the area, turning on a spotlight as the sun butted against the western horizon. A little Coastguard cutter came out later, used its own spotlight for a while, then told him they had to call it until morning.

They're my kids, he said.

We won't see them in the dark. We could just as easily run them down, the officer called down from the deck as the Checoni rode alongside.

I'm staying out. He had a headlamp, and he might still hear the whistles.

The officer turned to the bridge and called something to the crew inside. A reply came and the officer looked back down. Can't let you do that.

They're my kids, Graham said again, his voice catching. Who were they to tell him he couldn't look for his own children?

Yeah, guy, I know. I get it.

Someone called something from the bridge again.

Sure, the officer said. Hey. Tell me how much fuel you've got left.

Graham looked at the dial on the wheelmount. The needle was on empty. Half a tank, he called up. The cutter's spotlight shone down on Checoni's bow.

Uh-huh, the officer said. We're going to ease forward and we'll toss you a line. We'll tow you back to New Haven.

Perhaps, Graham called up, you could just spare me a little gas. I've got a jerry can.

Funny guy. Do you need me to knot on the towline?

Graham almost let him, but then he didn't want anyone else on the boat, tromping around with big boots. No, he said. I can do it. He stepped up from the wheel well and made his way through to the bow. The cutter moved along, almost keeping pace with him. Graham kept his attention out on the water, straining for any sign of yellow, listening for the sound of a whistle.

The officer tossed out a weight with a thin line on it. Graham caught the weight and took the line hand over hand, drawing in the heavier towrope. He wound the rope back and forth around a bollard, then knotted it. As he stood, the officer shone a light on Graham's face, then shouted something back up the deck.

Things happened fast. Two crew pulled on the towrope, drawing Checoni right up to the stern. Pulling on the railings, they twisted the yacht around.

What's going on? Graham said.

Just checking your injury. I didn't see the right side of your face at first. The officer leapt down to the deck.

Graham touched his ear. It's nothing, really. He knew it wasn't. He'd taped it, but the scalp wound had bled profusely, the blood soaking into his shirt.

The officer put his hand on Graham's shoulder and turned him, shining a flashlight up at his ear. Lot of blood, he said.

I guess. I bandaged it.

You'd better come aboard, let us take a look at it. In the sick bay.

Graham took a last look behind the yacht and let the officer help him up onto the cutter. Checoni drifted back, the towline growing taut as the cutter motored slowly ahead.

We'll resume first thing in the morning, the officer said. Before first light, even.

Graham nodded. I don't even know your name.

Charlie, the officer said.

Thanks, I guess.

Charlie nodded.

Graham ducked his head though a doorway, following the officer to the sickbay. Every fiber in him wanted to turn and run back to the yacht, to keep circling until they were found. But a quiet bead of logic made him keep walking. It was too dark, too late. The water wasn't that cold, was it? Late summer, even in the sound the water would be warm. If only they had been wearing wetsuits. He prayed they would survive overnight.

Why hadn't he called Sally already? he wondered. The reception could be lousy on the water, but he could have tried.

He'd delayed, not wanting to worry her. But now he had to call. She would never forgive him if he left it until the morning. Already she would be beginning to be concerned. The three of them ought to have been home by now. She would be thinking that they had tied up more than an hour ago, sunset at the latest, probably imagining the hold up now was only that they'd stopped off at IHOP for shakes.

I need to call my wife, he said.

Yes sir, certainly. Right after we've checked that wound. Charlie ushered him into a small room with a bed and racks of medical supplies.

Graham moved to the edge of the bed and peered through the porthole. He only saw his own reflection. The wound didn't seem so bad.

Chapter Four

Kate was quickly out of the city, heading past the Hamptons. Now that was a place she could live. What she needed was a wealthy patron who spent most of the year in Florida or France, who let her have the run of the five bedroom, six bathroom, four living area mansion, except for three weeks over summer when they came for barbecues and wake-boarding while she moved, temporarily, into the loft over the six-car garage, to continue painting. She would just have to paint them the occasional masterpiece and make sure the alarms were set if she ever had to go into town for supplies.

It was a fantasy. She would probably hate one of those mansions anyway, would prefer the loft. The times, though, when she'd had the opportunity to move into a loft space in a converted warehouse or some apartment building where someone had taken down every wall that wasn't load bearing, she'd never felt quite at home. There had been plenty of times too. People knew that she was an artist and assumed that she'd want to get out of her single bedroom apartment into something where she could spread out and paint. She imagined the kind of impractical lifestyle that those open spaces would demand, with the bathroom, the kitchen--and coffee--five hundred yards across the room from where she was actually working. And the heating bills.

No, she liked compact.

The exit signs flashed by. She was still twenty miles from her turn off. Secluded, Tim had said, though she wondered if there were truly any really secluded parts of Long Island left worth visiting. The place was just becoming an extended sprawl of the city, the western half commuters, the eastern half jammed up with holiday mansions and the occasional old clapboard cabin, the owners still hanging on to.

She ought to have called Graham, had him sail over with the kids from Bridgeport. He liked to take them out at weekends, and they loved it.

The dream spattered back up through her consciousness. A room with a chair spun itself into the memory. A drawing table with some pictures. It faded, then the cable was thrashing and sparking, the kids collapsing. She ought to get out and see them soon, she thought. It had been over six weeks since she'd been back to see them, and they were growing fast.

What she didn't like were Sally's looks that at first had said, shouldn't you have some of your own, and now had become a kind of disdainful now it's getting too late for you, you'd better get moving or you'll miss out on kids all together.

But Graham loved Sally, and she was good for him, Kate had to admit. Sally somehow reined in his crazier notions, but still let him try things out. Not making any noise about him buying a boat when she wasn't that even vaguely interested in being on the water herself. Suggesting that investing in windfarms on the other side of the country might not work out so well, and then it hadn't.

You couldn't, Kate decided, join the dots on people. She and Graham were great buddies, and Sally was the best thing for him, really, but Kate and Sally were as compatible as electricity and water.

The kids tumbling in the dream, blank faces falling into the water.

She passed the ten mile sign.

Chapter Five

Tim watched the water breaking around the jetty uprights, little pieces of foam flicking away in the breeze, the sound of the water reminding him of the leaky faucet back at the apartment. North, towards Connecticut, he could seem tiny squalls robbing the day of its calm. It would be okay, he figured. The forecast called for calm and the squalls were just lingering remnants of yesterday's storm. He could almost imagine, if he squinted a little, that they were breaking up already, dissipating into streaky dying remnants.

A car pulled up in the gravelly lot and Tim turned, waving to Kate. She killed the engine and stepped out. Am I okay here? she called over. She'd parked her sparkling Audi in next to his little beat-up Peugot. Perhaps that's why I like her, he thought, she doesn't buy Japanese, though deep down she might know that she should buy American. Beyond, behind the cars, the tall pines waved a little in the breeze.

You're fine, he said, heading up the jetty. This far up Long Island it didn't matter, she could park blocking the access road and no one would notice. Since he was a kid he'd imagined that this was a spot the Mafia goons would be driving out to with bodies.

Are you all set for the show? You're hanging it Tuesday, right?

Just a little to finish on number sixteen. And it's Thursday.

Happy with them? He put his arm around her waist as she got out. She felt slim and warm.

Hate them all, she said. Well, most. Not enough time to do anything about it now. Might as well be here.

Good to take a break. He pulled her close, enjoying her smell. He kissed her. I've seen some of them. Believe me, they're fabulous.

Now you're an art critic. She pulled back and turned to the boat. You're taking me out in that? she said.

Tim glanced back at the boat, anchored into the beach, the stern riding gently in the low waves. It was a fiberglass-hulled runabout, small but big enough that it had an inboard engine. His father had owned it, kept it in a shed nearby. Tim had wheeled it into the water down the narrow boat ramp earlier even then thinking to himself that it could do with some maintenance; a lick of paint, a new windshield to replace that one that was a little crazed and yellow with age.

Really, she said, grinning, opening the trunk. 'Classic' means something different. You know, polished walnut decking, handbuilt hull, brass fittings. She pulled on a small backpack.

I was using the term loosely.

Kate raised her eyebrows.

She's sound. May not look much, but she's not going to sink out from under us.

Kate looked out at the horizon, mouth pursed.

They won't come to anything, Tim said. They're dying out. The forecast is for clearing weather. He held up his phone. Reception wasn't great around here, but it would have updated within the last half hour. There were storms yesterday, and a little overnight, but this is just remnants.

Oh, consider me reassured. But she kept walking towards the boat.

He met her at the end, sweeping her into a hug, kissing her lightly. She felt good in his arms, light, fit, strong. Ready to move on and up. He wondered if she was ready for what he was going to propose.

Kate released, grinning. Okay, captain, I guess we should shove off.

They walked along to the little boat and Tim got the lifejackets. He handed one up to her.

Oh great, she said. That really inspires my confidence. But he could see she was just teasing, that she knew it was standard, like wearing a seatbelt in a car. He knew she wore a seatbelt. She put the lifejacket on.

Okay, all set?

I guess.

Tim picked up the anchor and tossed it into the boat. Together they pushed the little vessel back from the shore. Tim jumped in and held his hand out to help her in. I thought we might just zip up the island, not too far off shore, watch the birds, watch the ships.

Sure, she said, jumping into the boat without taking his hand. He reached to help steady her, but she had her feet. Just one thing, one request.

What's that? he asked.

Let me drive a little.

I... ah.

Teach me a little. I don't have to do it straight away.

Let's see how the sea is, he said. Even a little choppy makes it a different proposition.

No hurry.

Tim turned the starter and the engine caught first time. He sighed inwardly, imagining her becoming more nervous if he had to turn it over two or three times to start it up. He grinned at her and eased the throttle into reverse, letting the boat putt out into deeper water. Turning, he pushed the throttle forwards and the boat moved ahead. Kate sat in the seat next to him, one hand up on the dash, the other on her head. Gradually he worked the throttle until the boat came up onto the plane.

Chapter Six

Kate whooped. Tim smiled, glanced at her. Long Island Sound lay dead flat. Glassy, he thought the metaphor was, a glassy sea. They sped by a bay, past some kids setting up their Optimists and little cats--maybe formula 16s--to take out for the morning, past someone's big yacht tied up at a post just close to their mansion. A glassy mansion, Tim thought, looking at the three levels of floor to ceiling windows set to soak up every aspect of the sound.

Kate was standing now, holding her hat and the top of the windscreen, letting the wind blast by her. Her hair whipped around like a kite's tail.

Five months they'd been dating now. Dinners and movies, plays and walks in parks and along the Hudson walkways. She loved the