Ray Bradbury Stories Volume 1

‘Here, now!’ She rose in tremulous indignation. ‘Did you steal my antiques? My books? The clocks? What you got in that wicker?’

The dark young man whistled jauntily, turning his back to her, walking along behind the four staggering men. At the door he pointed to the wicker, offered its lid to Aunt Tildy. In pantomime he wondered if she would like to open it and gaze inside.

‘Curious? Me? Pshaw, no. Get out!’ cried Aunt Tildy.

The dark young man tapped a hat onto his head, saluted her crisply.

‘Good-by!’ Aunt Tildy slammed the door.

There, there. That was better. Gone. Darned fool men with their maggoty ideas. No never minds about the wicker. If they stole something, she didn’t care, long as they let her alone.

‘Look.’ Aunt Tildy smiled. ‘Here comes Emily, home from college. About time. Lovely girl. See how she walks. But, land, she looks pale and funny today, walkin’ so slow. I wonder why. Looks worried, she does. Poor girl. I’ll just fix some coffee and a tray of cakes.’

Emily tapped up the front steps. Aunt Tildy, rustling around, could hear the slow, deliberate steps. What ailed the girl? Didn’t sound like she had no more spunk than a flue-lizard. The front door swung wide. Emily stood in the hall, holding to the brass doorknob.

‘Emily?’ called Aunt Tildy.

Emily shuffled into the parlor, head down.

‘Emily! I been waitin’ for you! There was the darndest fool men here with a wicker. Tryin’ to sell me somethin’ I didn’t want. Glad you’re home. Makes it right cozy—’

Aunt Tildy realized that for a full minute Emily had been staring.

‘Emily, what’s wrong? Stop starin’. Here, I’ll bring you a cup of coffee. There!

‘Emily, why you backin’ away from me?

‘Emily, stop screamin’, child. Don’t scream. Emily! Don’t! You keep screamin’ that way, you go crazy. Emily, get up off the floor, get away from that wall! Emily! Stop cringin’, child. I won’t hurt you!

‘Land, if it ain’t one thing it’s another.

‘Emily, what’s wrong, child … ?’

Emily groaned through her hands over her face.

‘Child, child,’ whispered Aunt Tildy. ‘Here, sip this water. Sip it, Emily, that’s it.’

Emily widened her eyes, saw something, then shut them, quivering, pulling into herself. ‘Aunt Tildy, Aunt Tildy, Aunt—’

‘Stop that!’ Tildy slapped her. ‘What ails you?’

Emily forced herself to look up again.

She thrust her fingers out. They vanished inside Aunt Tildy.

‘What fool notion!’ cried Tildy. ‘Take your hand away! Take it, I say!’

Emily dropped aside, jerked her head, the golden hair shaking into shiny temblors. ‘You’re not here, Aunt Tildy. I’m dreaming. You’re dead!’

‘Hush, baby.’

‘You can’t be here.’

‘Land of Goshen, Emily—’

She took Emily’s hand. It passed clean through her. Instantly. Aunt Tildy raised straight up, stomping her foot.

‘Why, why!’ she cried angrily. ‘That – fibber! That sneak-thief!’ Her thin hands knotted to wiry, hard, pale fists. ‘That dark, dark fiend; he stole it! He toted it away, he did, oh he did, he did! Why, I—’ Wrath steamed in her. Her pale blue eyes were fire. She sputtered into an indignant silence. Then she turned to Emily. ‘Child, get up! I need you!’

Emily lay, quivering.

‘Part of me’s here!’ declared Aunt Tildy. ‘By the Lord Harry, what’s left will have to do, for a bit. Fetch my bonnet!’

Emily confessed. ‘I’m scared.’

‘Certainly, oh, certainly not of me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why, I’m no spook! You known me most of your life! Now’s no time to snivel-sop. Fetch up on your heels or I’ll slap you crack across your nose!’

Emily rose, in sobs, stood like something cornered, trying to decide which direction to bolt in.

‘Where’s your car, Emily?’

‘Down at the garage – ma’am.’

‘Good!’ Aunt Tildy hustled her through the front door. ‘Now—’ Her sharp eyes poked up and down the streets. ‘Which way’s the mortuary?’

Emily held to the step rail, fumbling down. ‘What’re you going to do, Aunt Tildy?’

‘Do?’ cried Aunt Tildy, tottering after her, jowls shaking in a thin, pale fury. ‘Why, get my body back, of course! Get my body back! Go on!’

The car roared. Emily clenched to the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the curved, rain-wet streets. Aunt Tildy shook her parasol.

‘Hurry, child, hurry, before they squirt juices in my body and dice and cube it the way them persnickety morticians have a habit of doin’. They cut and sew it so it ain’t no good to no one!’

‘Oh, Auntie, Auntie, let me go, don’t make me drive! It won’t do any good, no good at all,’ sighed the girl.

‘Here we are.’ Emily pulled to the curb, and collapsed over the wheel, but Aunt Tildy had already popped from the car and trotted with mincing skirt up the mortuary drive, around behind to where the shiny black hearse was unloading a wicker basket.

‘You!’ She directed her attack at one of the four men with the wicker. ‘Put that down!’

The four men looked up.

One said, ‘Step aside, lady. We’re doing our job.’

‘That’s my body tucked in there!’ She brandished the parasol.