The Cauldron by Jean Rabe, Gene DeWeese Read Free Book Online Page A

walked away. The blank screen of the television set faced him silently in the faint glow of the streetlights that filtered in through the curtained windows.
    Had the movie never happened?
    The drive to Creighton?
    Shelly? Beautiful Shelly driving and angry at him, justifiably angry for his treatment of her?
    Carl rubbed his icy hands together.
    He glanced at his watch. Nearly eleven.
    Well, that was something. Apparently he’d slept more than five hours before the nightmare got him. And this time he remembered all of it, not just the fog and the creatures that swam through it endlessly!
    It had been about Shelly, the nightmare, the real Shelly, not one whose face appeared for only a moment before dissolving into that of a total stranger. In his dream she had come over, he couldn’t quite remember why, and they’d gone to a movie up in Creighton, an old musical comedy he’d seen a long time ago.
    For some reason the movie had upset him, but he couldn’t imagine why. His stomach jumped as he remembered Shelly confronting him about it, and the hellish way it had all ended.
    The semi—
    Shaking his head and closing his eyes against the remembered image, he could only think how completely real it had all seemed. He could hear the blare of the semi’s horn, see the shadowy cab, the glistening, rain-spattered bumper as it bore down on them, crumpling the hood of Shelly’s car like so much tin foil. He quaked, rubbing his sweaty palms along his pant legs.
    Damp, he realized with a start. Strange. But it was probably just sweat, from the nightmare. He’d awakened that way often enough the past few nights, but this time it felt different somehow.
    Getting to his feet, he was momentarily unsteady, probably the result of lying sprawled uncomfortably on the couch for hours. Switching on the floor lamp, he made his way to the kitchen, where the refrigerator reminded him he should be hungry. He hadn’t eaten when Shelly had come by.
    She had come by, hadn’t she? Returned his key?
    Or was that part of the nightmare, too?
    Must be. One of those dreams that starts out perfectly plain and simple and then gradually slides into insanity. The others had likely been the same, the dreams and nightmares, but he just couldn’t remember them the way he could this one. But if she hadn’t actually come over, how far back did the dream go? The whole day?
    He grinned suddenly. Wouldn’t that be something! Harry and his “you-don’t-exist” business just a dream. The take some time off, just his imagination.
    But no, that “felt” real. Though so did Shelly and the car and the glistening, rain-slick pavement—and the crash, which he knew was a nightmare. He was here, he was alive, case closed.
    But still …
    Shivering, he picked up the phone. Shelly wouldn’t be in bed yet, not for another half hour or so according to her routine. Just say hello, hear her voice, apologize for … everything—
    Her machine answered. Her voice, but at the same time not her voice. He left a message telling her to call him no matter what time she got in.
    Ten minutes later he tried again. Same result. And ten minutes after that.
    He’d keep trying until he got through, until her voice, her living voice, not the damn recorded one, confirmed that it had all been a nightmare. Or was she listening to his voice on the machine right now, thinking, Go to hell, Carl? Most likely, considering how he had treated her last Sunday and since. Still, by the tenth try he was getting scared.
    Where the hell was she?
    Maybe he should drive by her place, see if her car was there.
    As he reached for his car keys, he saw Shelly’s key to his place, still hooked to the plastic Rolls Royce. It lay exactly where she had dropped it when—in his dream!—she had walked in and given it back.
    Before he softened the mood and asked her to the movies.
    Before—
    A car door slammed in front of the house.
    Carl reached toward the key ring.
    Touched it. It really was there.
    The