Mutation

Victor made his way through the trash on the floor and approached the central stairwell. Standing in front of it, he looked to the immediate right. He even took the copy of the existing floor plan and held it up to make sure he’d read it right.

Victor couldn’t understand what he was doing wrong. There were no basement stairs. He even walked around the other side of the stairwell just in case the blueprints were in error.

But there were no stairs going down on that side either.

Walking back to the location where the plans said the stairway was supposed to be, Victor noticed that the area was devoid of the debris that was scattered over the rest of the floor. Finding that odd, he bent down and noticed something else: the floor planking was wider than it was in the rest of the building. And it was newer wood.

Victor started at a sound from behind. He turned, but it seemed there was nothing there. Still, he felt there was someone there in the semidarkness. Someone very near.

Terrified, Victor tried to scan the surrounding cavernous room. Again from behind he heard or felt a second sound or vibration. No doubt about it: a footfall. Victor turned, but too late. He could just make out the shadowy silhouette of a figure raising some sort of object over his head. He tried to lift his hands to protect himself from the blow, but could not save himself from its power. His mind collapsed into a black abyss.

After leaving Lowell, Marsha stopped at a roadside concession and used the phone and called the Blakemores. She felt mildly awkward, but managed to get herself invited over for a short visit. It took her about half an hour to get to their home in West Boxford at 479 Plum Island Road.

As she pulled in, Marsha was glad it had stopped raining.

But as she opened the door to her car, she wished she’d taken one of her down coats. The temperature was dropping rapidly.

The Blakemore house was a cozy structure reminiscent of the kind of houses seen on Cape Cod. The windows were mullioned and painted white. Arching over the entranceway was a latticed wood arbor. Marsha climbed the front steps and rang the bell.

Mrs. Blakemore opened the door. She was a stocky woman about Marsha’s age, with short hair turned up at the ends.

“Come in,” she said, eyeing Marsha curiously. “I’m Edith Blakemore.”

Marsha felt the woman’s stare and wondered if there was something amiss with her appearance, like a dark spot between her front teeth from the fruit she’d just eaten. She ran her tongue over her teeth just to be sure.

Inside the house was every bit as charming as the exterior. The furniture was early American antique with chintz-covered couches and wing chairs. On the wide-planked pine floor were rag rugs.

“May I take your coat?” Edith asked. “How about some coffee or tea?”

“Tea would be nice,” Marsha said. She followed Edith into the living room.

Mr. Blakemore, who had been sitting by the fire with the newspaper, got to his feet as Marsha entered. “I’m Carl Blakemore,” he said, extending his hand. He was a big man with leathery skin and dark features.

Marsha shook his hand.

“Sit down, make yourself at home,” Carl said, motioning to the couch. After Marsha sat down, he returned to his own seat, placing the paper on the floor next to his chair. He smiled pleasantly. Edith disappeared into the kitchen.

“Interesting weather,” Carl said, attempting to make conversation.

Marsha could not rid herself of the uncomfortable feeling she’d gotten when Edith had first looked at her. There was something stiff and unnatural about these people but Marsha couldn’t put her finger on it.

A boy came down the stairs and into the room. He was just about VJ’s age but larger and stockier, with sandy-colored hair and dark brown eyes. There was a tough look about him, and the resemblance to Mr. Blakemore was striking. “Hello,”

he said, extending his hand in a gentlemanly fashion.

“You must be Richie,” Marsha said, shaking hands with the boy. “I’m VJ’s mother. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Marsha felt an exaggeration was in order.

“You have?” Richie asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” Marsha said. “And the more I heard, the more I wanted to meet you. Why don’t you come over to our house sometime? I suppose VJ has told you we have a swimming pool.”

“VJ never told me you have a swimming pool,” Richie said.

He sat on the hearth and stared up at Marsha to the point that she felt even more uncomfortable.

“I don’t know why he didn’t,” Marsha said. She looked at Carl. “You never know what’s in these children’s minds,” she said with a smile.

“Guess not,” Carl said.

There was an awkward silence. Marsha wondered what was going on.

“Milk or lemon?” Edith asked, coming into the room and breaking the silence. She carried a tray into the living room and put it on the coffee table.

“Lemon,” Marsha said. She took the cup from Edith and held it while Edith poured. Then she squeezed in a little lemon.