The Night Listener and Others Read Free

embarrassed by it ever since. But now I am grateful for my unintended foresight as my fingers wrap around the hilt in the dark and I slide it from its scabbard. It makes an abrasive noise as it leaves its longtime home, and I let my hand slip down the length of its blade. There are small rough patches I take to be rust, and the edges are so dull that I can easily rub the heel of my hand over them without pain. But the point is still sharp, and a quick firm thrust should pierce anything possessing the softness of life.
    I go into the living room where I sit waiting on the sofa, the sword between my knees, my hands on the hilt, the point against the carpet. Finally I hear it, and its boldness frightens me for a moment. There is none of its previous stealth in its tread; the weeds and sticks and grass beneath it cry out at its passing where before they would only have whimpered. There is no fear in it.
    The front door trembles and holds. The lock is on, and it does not break the glass. Now around to the back it comes, passing the living room and den windows with a steady imperious tread. I know that tonight it will enter.
    My stomach twists as I pad into the kitchen, the blade angled weakly toward the floor, no d’Artagnan gaily swinging a beribboned rapier, but a naked primal man, guarding his cave against the beast that seeks entry.
    The screen-door handle rattles, and outside I see it in its multifarious shapes—sabertooth, lamia, ghoul—the night-horror standing outside the door. Even if I die, I will finally see its face; despite the dark, despite the speed with which it may come, like a juggernaut, upon me, I will see its true face.
    The storm door opens, thrown back with no thought of secretiveness, and now the thing’s hand grasps the cool roundness of the second knob. It turns a hair and stops. It is locked, as always. I have locked it. The thing pauses, and in that second I detect an unease, a thought of turning around and walking back into the darkness.
    But no! No more of this! And my left hand reaches out and quietly turns the catch on the knob, unlocking the door so that even a cripple might enter.
    Try again! I think savagely . Please, damn you, try again!
    It does. The knob turns, the latch leaves the security of its hole and draws into the door itself. The way stands open for a push. I step back and ready the sword. When it comes through it will be huge, larger than man, so I lift my arm back and high. If I aim high, perhaps I may reach its heart.
    The door opens. Against the outer dark I see a deeper darkness that fills the doorway. I wait only until the door is opened wide, until the rubber stop thuds against the wall, and then I thrust with all my strength, blade rocketing forward like a javelin.
    It stops as though a fist has grabbed it, and at first I fear that is precisely what has happened. But as the shock of impact shivers up my arm, it is followed by a yielding feeling, a vulnerability that amazes me. The sword’s point is pulled downward and the hilt falls from my hand as the thing strikes the floor with a solidity that shakes the kitchen, rattles the silverware. Then comes the sound of its dying. My hand fumbles at the wall, and the light switch I have touched a thousand times seems cold and alien. I take a deep breath, flick the white plastic toggle, and light floods the room
    He is a boy. He is nothing but a boy. Ectomorphically thin, he lies there, his arms protruding from the short cuffs of his jacket like fleshy sticks. A fuzz of wheat-colored beard covers his chin, though it is hard to detect because of the blood. Gloved hands grasp the sword still sticking in his throat, where the jaw waggles to and fro. But no words come, only a wet whistling that sends red froth bubbling up from the edges of the wound. His neck, the front of his jacket, the throw rug beneath him are all sodden with blood. He turns his eyes toward me, and I am struck by how young he is. His dripping gloves tap at the