The Anything Box

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shelling and throwing away with nothing but emptiness in them.
"And she tears rug rags good. And she can pull weeds if nothing else isgrowing where they are."
"Why—" I started—and stopped.
"Why do we keep her?" asked Ma. "She doesn't die. She's alive. What shouldwe do? She's no trouble. Not much, anyway."
"Put her in a home somewhere," I suggested.
"She's in a home now," said Ma, spooning up for Aunt Daid. And we don't have to put out cash for her and no telling what'd happen to her."
"What is this walking business anyway? Walking where?"
"Down hollow," said Pa, cutting a quarter of a cherry pie. "Down to theoak—" he drew a deep breath and let it out— "and back again."
"Why down there?" I asked. "Hollow's full of weeds and mosquitoes. Besidesit's—it's—"
"Spooky," said Ma, smiling at me.
"Well, yes, spooky," I said. "There's always a quiet down there when thewind's blowing everywhere else, or else a wind when everything's still. Whydown there?"
"There's where she wants to walk," said Pa. "You walk her down there."
"Well." I stood up, "Let's get it over with. Come on, Aunt Daid."
"She ain't ready yet," said Ma. "She won't go till she's ready."
"Well, Pa, why can't you walk her then?" I asked. "You did it once—"
"Once is enough," said Pa, his face shut and still. "It's your job thistime. You be here when you're needed. It's a family duty. Them fish willwait."
"Okay, okay," I said. "But at least tell me what the deal is. It soundslike a lot of hogwash to me."
There wasn't much to tell. Aunt Daid was a family heirloom, like, but Panever heard exactly who she was to the family. She had always been likethis—just as old and so dried up she wasn't even repulsive. I guess it's onlywhen there's enough juice for rotting that a body is repulsive and Aunt Daidwas years and years past that. That must be why the sight of her wet tonguejarred me.
Seems like once in every twenty-thirty years, Aunt Daid gets an awfulcraving to go walking. And always someone has to go with her. A man. She won'tgo with a woman. And the man comes back changed.
"You can't help being changed," said Pa, "when your eyes look on thingsyour mind can't—" Pa swallowed.
"Only time there was any real trouble with Aunt Daid," said Pa, "was whenthe family came west. That was back in your great-great-grampa's time. Theyleft the old place and came out here in covered wagons and Aunt Daid didn'teven notice until time for her to walk again. Then she got violent.Great-grampa tried to walk her down the road, but she dragged him all over theplace, coursing like a hunting dog that's lost the trail only with her eyesblind-like, all through the dark. Great-grampa finally brought her back almostat sunrise. He was pert nigh a broken man, what with cuts and bruises andscratches —and walking Aunt Daid. She'd finally settled on down hollow."
"What does she walk for?" I asked. "What goes on?" "You'll see, son," saidPa. "Words wouldn't tell anything, but you'll see."
That evening Aunt Daid covered her face again with her hands. Later shestood up by herself, teetering by her chair a minute, one withered old handpawing at the air, till Ma, with a look at Pa, set her down again.
All next day Aunt Daid was quiet, but come evening she got restless. Shewent to the door three or four times, just waiting there like a puppy askingto go out, but after my heart had started pounding and I had hurried to herand opened the door, she just waved her face blindly at the darkness outsideand went back to her chair.
Next night was the same until along about ten o'clock, just as Ma wasthinking of putting Aunt Daid to bed. First thing we knew, Aunt Daid was by
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the door again, her feet tramping up and down impatiently, her dry hands
whispering over the door.
"It's time," said Pa quiet-like, and I got all cold inside.
"But it's blacker'n pitch tonight," I protested. "It's as dark as the
inside of a cat. No moon."
Aunt Daid whimpered. I nearly dropped. It was the first sound I'd ever
heard from her.
"It's time," said Pa again, his face bleak. "Walk her, son. And, Paul—bring
her back."
"Down hollow's bad enough by day," I said, watching, half sick, as Aunt
Daid spread her skinny arms out against the door, her face pushed up against
it hard, her saggy black dress looking like spilled ink dripped down, "but on
a moonless night—"
"Walk her somewhere else, then," said Pa, his voice getting thin. "If you
can. But get going, son, and don't come back without her."
And I was outside, feeling the shifting of Aunt Daid's hand bones inside my
hand as she set off through the dark, dragging me along with her, scared half
to death, wondering if the rustling I heard was her skin or her clothes,
wondering on the edge of screaming where she was dragging me to—what she was
dragging me to.
I tried to head her off from down hollow, steering her toward the lane or
the road or across lots or out into the pasture, but it was like being a dog
on a leash. I went my way the length of our two arms, then I went her way.
Finally I gave up and let her drag me, my eyes opened to aching, trying to see
in the dark so heavy that only a less dark showed where the sky was. There
wasn't a sound except the thud of our feet in the dust and a thin straining
hiss that was Aunt Daid's breath and a gulping gasp that was mine. I'd've
cried if I hadn't been so scared.
Aunt Daid stopped so quick that I plowed into her, breathing in a sudden
puff of a smell like a stack of old newspapers that have been a long time in a
dusty shed. And there we stood, so close I could touch her but I couldn't even
see a glimmer of her face in the darkness that was so thick it seemed like the
whole night had poured itself down into the hollow. But between one blink and
another, I could see Aunt Daid. Not because there was any more light, but
because my eyes seemed to get more seeing to them.
She was yawning—a soft little yawn that she covered with a quick hand—and
then she laughed. My throat squeezed my breath. The yawn and the hand movement
and the laugh were all young and graceful and—and beautiful—but the hand and
the face were still withered-up old Aunt Daid.
“I’m waking up." The voice sent shivers up me—pleasure shivers. "I'm waking
up," said Aunt Daid again, her soft, light voice surprised and delighted. "And
I know I'm waking up!"
She held her hands up and looked at them. "They look so horribly real," she
marveled. "Don't they?"
She held them out to me and in my surprise I croaked, "Yeah, they sure do."
At the sound of my voice, she jerked all over and got shimmery all around
the edges.
"He said," she whispered, her lips firming and coloring as she talked, "he
said if ever I could know in my dream that I was just dreaming, I'd be on the
way to a cure. I know this is the same recurrent nightmare. I know I'm asleep,
but I'm talking to one of the creatures—" she looked at me a minute "—one of