Fic: Deathbed
In celebration of International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day (click here for the founding of the event, and here for the origin of the movement and an explanation of where the name came from [cough]) I'm posting a story I wrote years ago, a modern fantasy/horror; it's not really scary or gross or anything, but it's twisty and I like it.

Briefly, today people are posting fiction for free on the internet. It's supposed to be "professional quality" work and since I've never been paid for anything I don't really have a story which qualifies, but this is the closest I've come -- one rejection letter I got for it said that it was too close to a story by Octavia Butler. At the time I'd never read any of her stories but I'd certainly heard of her and was more than willing to accept the compliment. Now that I've read some of her work I'm even happier, if one can be happy about a rejection. [wry smile]

In editing this for posting online, adding HTML and such, I noticed that a few references are dated, mostly hairstyles and such. I thought about updating it then decided not to. It works as it is and I hope you enjoy it, dated hair and all. :)



Deathbed, by Angela Penrose

Thomas Kendal straightened the knot on his tasteful blue tie, eyeing his trim, conservative figure in the mirror over the antique dresser as he did so. He missed actually having hair on the top half of his head, but his Uncle Justin was a narrow-minded old fogey -- and always had been -- and would never approve of a relative who shaved the sides of his head and grew the top long. Thomas figured he could handle the crew cut for the next few days, and after that, after Uncle Justin was dead and Thomas finally took possession of the wealth which was rightfully his, he could do whatever he wanted.

"But Thomas, I don’t want to sit with him any more. He’s an old perv. He’s always grabbing my leg or my boob or anything else that comes within reach." Candy, Thomas’s wife, flopped down on the bed, her pouting scowl matching the whine in her voice. Candy was wearing a dowdy poplin skirt with a pastel blouse and a cardigan. She’d bitched about the clothes, and about having to cut off the three tiny braids that had dangled from the nape of her neck, but after a good fight and a few smacks she’d finally seen reason.

"I don’t care if he wants you to give him a blow job," Thomas retorted, glowering at her reflection in the mirror. "For what he’s going to leave me, you can damn well put up with whatever the geezer’s capable of. He’s eighty-two years old and he can hardly move -- he can’t even get up to piss by himself anymore. He’s not going to rape you, and if he wants to have a little fun in his last hours, you can shut up and handle it."

Candy glared back at him, then sighed theatrically and went back to fidgeting with her nails. They were short and rounded and pale pink, unlike the long black talons she was used to. One more thing she was always whining about. He ignored her. Thomas Kendal had no patience with stupid women who pouted about their nails when there was a fortune within reach. Candy had always been a stupid little twit, always whining about something from the time she was a baby. He knew how to handle her, though; you just had to be firm, and belt her when she got stubborn.

"I'm going to go get the mail, and then I have an appointment with McCarty to wrap up all the funeral arrangements. You get your ass upstairs and make nice with him. Read him that book or whatever he wants, and I mean whatever." Thomas took Candy by the arm and hauled her off the bed, grabbing a bouquet of roses and sweet peas off the night table and thrusting it into her hands. "Here, take this. Make sure he knows I’m taking care of his damn flowers." He shoved her out the door and in the direction of the staircase. "And don’t whine at me, or I’ll give you something to whine about."

He pretended not to see the dirty look she threw him before stalking away. Instead he just turned around and strode off down the hall in the opposite direction. It was nearly four o'clock and the mail would be arriving any time now. He ran a hand through his damp hair one last time and headed down the hall opposite the way Candy had gone, toward the stairs to the first floor.

Thomas had spent three and a half hours grubbing away in that damn garden before finally coming up for a shower and a change of clothes. He hated manual labor, especially in this heat, but the old geezer dying upstairs had a thing for gardening and Thomas did whatever he could to convince his uncle that he was the perfect nephew, his Uncle Justin all over again. Hah, that was a laugh! If Justin only knew, Thomas was just like him -- just as ruthless, just as determined, and just as patient. When he was younger he'd refused to see it, but now he could admit to himself that he and Justin Kendal were a lot alike. For all the good it would do the old man.

Downstairs, the diamond paned glass surrounding the light oak front doors sent spangles of sunshine dancing all over the parquet entry hall. Some kind of plant inhabited an entire corner next to the stairs. The rest of the house was the same -- tasteful, conservative, a quietly expensive Republican sort of place. Thomas wasn't exactly thrilled with it, but it wasn't awful either, and after Uncle Justin finally died, he'd be able to hire anyone he wanted to redecorate. Hell, he could knock the whole place down and start over if he wanted to.

"Thomas. I thought you were still out playing field hand."

Thomas looked over his shoulder at his cousin Lorraine, standing in the hallway. The cold contempt on her plain, sharp face didn’t bother him a bit.

Smiling with all the sincerity he could fake, he replied, "No, I finished tying up the sweet peas and cultivating the rose bed almost an hour ago. You could make yourself useful too, if you really wanted to. It's not as if Uncle Justin is in any condition to see to things himself, poor man."

Lorraine's mouth twisted. "Don't feed me that shit," she hissed. "We've found you out, Bob and Tanya and Julie and I. Tanya locked us in the library and wouldn't let us out until we listened to her. She didn’t have to say much before we weren't angry any more. At least, not at her."

"Oh?" Thomas raised one dark eyebrow. The cousins had finally gotten around to comparing notes. A flutter of alarm ran up and down his spine, but he controlled it. It didn't matter, not any more. It was too late for them to do anything, far too late. He was safe no matter what they'd figured out.

"Yes, 'oh.'" Her features twisted into hate. "I thought you were my friend, you bastard. All this time. I thought Tanya was the one who'd told Uncle Justin about the pot thing, and it was you! And you told Bob that I was the one who told Uncle Justin about him and his friend Miguel, but it was you! You told Julie I'd made a play for Dale, and you told me that Julie was saying I was whoring around. You told Bob that Julie was the one who dropped a dime on him to the cops and got his apartment tossed, and you told Bob that Tanya was the one who soured the Endicott House job on him, when she didn't even know about it. And we all hated each other and we all believed you, every one of us!"

Thomas crossed his arms and chuckled. "Well, it sounds like I've been busy, doesn't it?" Play it easy, he told himself. You don't care, it doesn't matter. It's amusing, maybe you don't even believe her. Easy....

"Oh, right, busy." Her voice drifted up a register, getting shriller with anger, but it seemed she didn't notice, or at least didn't care. "You got us all hating each other so we wouldn't compare notes. And you blabbed every one of your lies to Uncle Justin, you greedy bastard!" Lorraine's eyes were narrowed, her fists were balled at her sides, and she was panting with rage. And frustration. There had to be some frustration in there too, because no matter what she'd figured out, there was absolutely nothing she could do. Not now.

"Well, whatever I did, it sounds like I didn't do much of a job. You seem to have figured it all out, haven't you? So, now what?" Thomas cocked his head at her and smiled again, keeping his stance relaxed and amused by sheer force of will. Let's see what she's going to do next, he thought.

She just glared at him, and then looked away. He allowed his smile to widen a fraction. Hah! She didn't have any plans. She was just venting. Well, she could vent until Satan opened a Dairy Belle franchise for all Thomas cared.

She straightened up and looked him straight in the eye. "I'm going to go tell Uncle Justin what you've done," she declared. "We all are. We're going to expose you, and you can't stop us."

Thomas grinned at her. "Go right ahead. Say whatever you want and see what it gets you." He gave an exaggerated sigh, his shoulders heaving up and then down. "I'm afraid our uncle has far too low an opinion of you to take you very seriously." He gave a soft laugh and lowered his voice. "He thinks you're a lowlife druggie, Tanya's a vindictive bitch, Bob's a twisted fag, and Julie's a two-bit whore. He won't listen to anything any of you have to say, and you might as well save your energy. You all showed up here for the same reason I did, to suck up at his deathbed and get as much money as you could. Well, I've won, and you've lost. I'll lend you each twenty bucks for a cab if you want, but that's the most of the old man's money any of you are going to get. Live with it."

"You are such a bastard," she whispered.

"But I'm going to be a rich bastard," he replied, his voice low and hard. "I really don't give a shit about anything else. Now, if you've had your say, I have things to do." He turned his back on her and walked out the front door. The mail would be here by now, and he wanted to get it before anyone else did. He'd taken over all of Uncle Justin's business, and wanted to make sure it all stayed under his control. And then he had an appointment with the funeral director; he was going to make sure his uncle had the fanciest funeral possible, with all the frosting. He owed the old goat that much. He'd put on the grieving nephew face at the most expensive funeral of the year, and then he'd come home to his new mansion and laugh.



Justin Kendal's body was getting lighter. Everything around him -- the quilted satin spread, the oaken posts of his bed, the ivory wallpaper with a border of hunting spaniels up around the ceiling, the sheer green curtains over the windows opposite his bed -- all the solid things in the room had a misty look, a waveriness about them, as though their outlines were blurring.

Justin felt blurry himself. Lighter, and less solid. The pain was less, but so was his control over his body. He was old, and he felt himself -- his body -- dying. He wasn't afraid, though. He'd ceased to fear death a long time ago.

If he relaxed sufficiently, he could see through the ceiling. Or the wall. Or his hand, whenever he could gather enough energy to hold it up in front of his face. It was hard to maintain that level of relaxation, though, when one was trying to maintain it.

Earlier that afternoon, when he'd been resting his eyes, he'd opened them to find himself looking down at his own shrunken body. He'd been terrified for a moment, and with a ripple he'd been back down on the bed, looking out instead of in. That had happened before too, but unlike the wavering of the physical world, his momentary slips out of his body never failed to terrify him. Especially if they happened when he was alone.

There should be someone with him. That whelp Thomas had been sucking up to him for long enough, or sending his bimbo wife to do it in his place. Given a choice, he'd rather have Candy sitting with him, but he'd have plenty of time with her soon enough.

Thomas would come rushing in any time now. He'd never let his "favorite uncle" die alone, not so long as that uncle could mutter clearly enough to dictate a change to the will.

Justin Kendal chuckled to himself, eager for his coming death.



Candy Kendal rubbed at her sore arm, cursing her husband for the scumbag he was. Sometimes she wondered why she'd married him, why she stayed married to him. Her father had liked him and had encouraged the marriage, pointing out that there was money in the family, and if she was smart she could set herself up for life. Whenever Thomas's nasty side came out, she'd remembered his Uncle Justin's money and that had always given her the determination to straighten up and hang in there.

This afternoon had been it, though. Before, whenever Thomas had hit her, he'd mumbled something about being sorry, about not doing it again. This time, though, he'd really twisted her arm and hadn't even pretended to be sorry. He was getting worse and she was sick of it. She already had to slather on the makeup to hide the bruise on her cheekbone, but now she'd be in long sleeves for the next two weeks, and in this heat.

That's it, she thought. I've put up with his shit long enough. I want to be rich, but I don't want to spend it all on doctor bills. And thanks to Thomas I won't have to.

Thomas himself had made sure that the old man would toss all his money down the john before leaving it to any of his other relatives. Thomas was a slippery liar, especially when it came to making other people look like slimes. That was a done deal.

She reached the third story landing and slipped into Uncle Justin's bedroom. The place always smelled of disease, but she'd learned not to let her revulsion show. Instead she smiled brightly and said, "Hi, Uncle Justin. How are you feeling?" She sat down in the chair next to his bed, and took his withered old hand in hers, making herself caress his dry, creeping flesh.

"Candy," the old man muttered. "How th'hell d'you think I feel?" He managed a cynical smile. "I feel like I'm dyin', that's how I feel."

Candy just smiled down at him, squeezing his hand. At first she'd been turned off by his rough personality, but it was just the way he was, and she knew he liked her.

"Let's read some more of your book," she suggested, reaching for the volume on the glass-topped table with her free hand. A rough looking guy in a bowl-shaped helmet stared up at her from the cover, a cigarette dangling from between his lips.

Uncle Justin had been a machinist during World War I, and had owned a munitions factory during World War II. He'd never seen a battle, but he had a fascination with war and fighting and death, and had a huge library of war-type books. Ernie Pyle, the guy on the cover of this one, had actually been out there, as a journalist, and he'd written about every stinking foot of it. She and Uncle Justin were a third of the way through a collection of his newspaper columns called Ernie's War.

Candy figured Uncle Justin would be in a position to talk to the Pyle guy himself before they finished the book, which didn't bother her any. She'd had a hard time keeping her eyes focused through the hundred and some pages so far, and would just as soon not have to force herself through the rest. She would, though, if that's what it took to keep Uncle Justin thinking she was his devoted niece -- devoted enough to make him forget that she was no blood relation.

"Gimme a drink first," he whispered.

Candy sighed to herself and put the book back down, extricating her left hand from Uncle Justin's claw. He wasn't really thirsty, he just enjoyed having her prop him up so he could sip from the cup. Sure enough, when she slipped one arm around his shoulders to hold him up, her other hand occupied with the plastic cup, he steadied himself with one hand on her shoulder and the other one square on her boob.

She made herself keep smiling, determined to "not notice" where he'd "accidentally" put his hand. It was a game they played and it didn't bother her that much, really, although she still needed to let off some steam over it. And if Thomas didn't like hearing about it, that was just tough. He made her listen to enough of his moaning and griping; the least he could do was listen to hers.

At least he wouldn't have to listen to it for much longer.

That thought made her smile for real as she settled back down into her chair and picked up the hated book.

Two hours later, when Thomas came in with Uncle Justin's dinner on a tray, they were reading about some artist named Von Ripper who kept going back into war and getting shot. Or rather, Candy was reading and Uncle Justin was listening, occasionally grunting his approval or groping his hand higher and higher up her thigh.

"Oh, there's your dinner, Uncle Justin," she chirped, trying to sound perky. It wasn't too hard -- she was happy enough to put the book down and move across the room to the door. She took the glass of milk off the tray before Thomas spilled it.

"I'm going out this evening," she whispered to her husband.

"Where the hell are you going?" he whispered back. They both kept smiles on their faces for the old man.

"I've got to get out of here. I’m going to go to a movie, have a drink." She lowered her voice some more. "I know, I know, I won't come back drunk. I just have to unwind. It's your turn to sit with him anyway, before he forgets your face."

He didn't like it but he didn't gripe too much either. They set up the tray on the TV table, and she left Thomas spooning mashed potatoes into his uncle's mouth, pretending he loved the old perv. Easy for him -- the geezer had probably never groped his thigh.

Candy hurried downstairs, stopping off at the bedroom on the second floor to pick up her purse. She checked her wallet -- sometimes Thomas swiped cash from her without asking first, but this time it was all there. All eight hundred dollars. It was all the money she'd saved, and all she'd gotten for pawning her engagement ring and her mother's diamond earrings. But that was all right. The ring she didn't give a damn about and the earrings she could get back soon.

She slipped out the side door without meeting any of the relatives. They were all in the dining room, probably happy enough not to have to eat with either her or Thomas. Well, that was fine with her too.

Five minutes later she was cruising down the expressway, headed in toward Chicago. She found a certain street in a certain part of town and parked the car. It was only a VW Bug and she was pretty sure it wouldn't be bothered. Besides, the folks in this neighborhood knew better than to hassle Lou's customers. Her polyester clothes and Mom-Partridge hair drew a few catcalls, but other than that everyone left her alone.

Lou had been her source for years, since he'd sold her her first joint when she was in junior high. She'd bought all sorts of things from him -- pot, acid, coke when she could afford it. Now, though, she was here to pick up a special order. Lou swore it would do the job, and she'd sworn to him that there was a letter in a safe deposit box that would finger him if he screwed her over. He'd just grinned. They understood one another.



Justin Kendal had survived another day. The afternoon sun, tinted green from the curtains, turned the room into a wavering underwater scene. Candy's soprano voice managed to drone over Ernie Pyle's accounts of the war in Italy; she tried to pretend interest but she was a lousy liar. Unlike her husband.

Justin Kendal squeezed her thigh, enjoying the tightening of her eyebrows and the stiffening of her voice for just a word or two, before she went on pretending she hadn't noticed. He couldn't really enjoy much of anything in his current condition, not physically anyway, but he got a chuckle out of pulling her chain when she was so determined not to let on that she was upset.

Another thing that gave him a chuckle was the thought of dear, devoted Thomas slaving away down in the garden. He'd mentioned that the yarrow needed thinning and that he'd planned to transplant the thinnings to the side bed next to the garage. Young Thomas had immediately volunteered to take care of that little task, of course.

Justin had deliberately come up with a horrible, sweaty job, and he laughed to himself at the memory of dear suck-up Thomas faking enthusiasm for it. He'd mentioned how delicate the yarrow was, too, and the thought of Thomas taking pains to treat the roots gently, untangling them without breaking them any more than necessary, and planting them with infinite care, was hysterical. Yarrow was one of the toughest plants in existence and would reestablish itself if you yanked it out of the ground with one hand and tossed it anywhere near dirt, but Thomas was too ignorant of gardening to know that, no matter what he tried to pretend. The laugh came out a grunt and Candy patted his hand without slowing down her reading.

Justin let his attention drift away from Candy's voice. He stared at the green curtains until they swam, drifting apart, their strands spreading across the room. If he let his eyes unfocus enough, he could see a view out the window, one very different from what he usually saw. Instead of oak trees and lawn and the roof of the garage, he saw a grey tunnel slowly spiraling to a point. He didn’t know what was at the end of that tunnel, and didn't particularly want to find out. He was only human and he had five lifetimes of human error marked on his slate; he was perfectly contented to put off the journey down that tunnel for as long as he could. With any luck, that would be forever.

He looked away from the window and instead let his eyes rest on the dresser until it, too, began to spread and swirl. It took less attention to lose focus on the dimming world now, and less to lose focus on himself. If he wasn't careful when he reached for Candy's thigh, he lifted his hand clean out of his hand, as it were. He had to make a special effort now to take his body along with him when he moved.

Of course, it wasn't always worth it to make the effort. He was hovering over Candy, looking down her blouse, when a sudden pounding of feet coming up the stairs broke his concentration. He snapped back into his feeble, dying body just as his niece Lorraine slammed into the room.

"He's dead! Thomas! In the garden!" She took a gulp of air and said more calmly, "Thomas collapsed in the garden. We've called an ambulance, but we think he's dead."

Candy leaped to her feet, the book thudding to the floor, her hands clasped to her cheeks. "How horrible! He can't be! Oh, no!" She dashed out of the room and Justin heard her slamming down the stairs.

Justin chuckled to himself, pleased surprise warming his blood. I didn't think she had it in her, he mused gleefully. The little bitch actually did it! He eyed Lorraine, who'd stayed behind to hover over him, but she didn't seem to have noticed anything funny about Candy's reaction, despite the fact that it was so fake it crackled.

Huh. Lorraine had never had a chance. Her greed and opportunism he could have ignored, but never her stupidity. When she made a tentative effort to speak with him, he just grunted and waved a feeble hand at her, ignoring what she had to say. He knew it all anyway and didn't care. He made a point of choosing his heirs from only the most deserving and Lorraine just didn't cut it. Neither did any of the others. He knew who did, though, now that Thomas was dead.



There, it was all set. Uncle Justin had demanded his lawyer in that whispery croak of his, and the man had come scurrying. He'd redone his will, and she -- Candy Blaine Kendal, his loving niece even if only by marriage, newly bereft of her husband and needing support -- she would receive the bulk of his estate upon his passing.

I did it! It's going to be mine! And only mine! That bastard will never ignore me, never put me down, never slap me around again, ever, may he rot in hell!

Poor Thomas had died of a heart attack while out laboring in the sun. He was young for it, yes, only thirty-one, but he was unused to physical work and unaccustomed strenuous exercise in the hot sun had carried off men his age before. The coroner had shaken his head and signed the death certificate.

Candy had flushed the rest of the clear liquid Lou had sold her down the toilet, broken the bottle with a hammer, and buried the fragments in three different garbage cans outside. She did so with a smile, considering that little bottle to be the best purchase she'd ever made, from Lou or anyone else.

The cousins had departed, leaving her to arrange for Thomas's funeral, and deal with Uncle Justin. She'd called McCarty, the same man Thomas had arranged his uncle's funeral with, and told him to do the same for Thomas himself. McCarty had delicately, after much hinting and bullshitting around, suggested a double funeral. Candy had said that sounded like a fine idea and a perfect ending for an uncle and nephew who'd been so devoted to each other. Crying the whole time, of course. But her own father had died only three months ago and she was sick of funerals. Anything that let her go to one less was fine with her.

Now she sat with Uncle Justin, keeping vigil on his deathbed, trying hard to look grieving but brave. She knew she wasn't doing much of a job of it but figured the old guy was too far gone to notice any ragged edges on her performance.

She was reading the Pyle book again. Amazingly, Uncle Justin had lasted almost to the end. Pyle was talking about what it was like in Okinawa, and it looked like there were only a few pages left to the book. She was considering the horribly depressing possibility of having to start yet another of these damn war books, when the old man grabbed her again. What made her stop reading was that he had her wrist instead of her leg.

"Candy," he muttered.

"I'm here, Uncle Justin." She set the book down on the side table and leaned closer. "What do you need?"

He squeezed her wrist, a dry, feeble clasp. "It's time," he said, his weak voice a whispery rasp.

She took his hand in both of hers and gently squeezed back, concealing her relief that it was finally over. "I'm here, Uncle. I'm with you, and I won't go away. Do you need anything? I'll do whatever you want." Easy enough to promise, now that the old perv couldn't possibly want anything complicated.

"I know," he whispered. "You're a selfish bitch. That's why I like you. You're jus' like me."

"Uncle Justin!" She froze, staring at him, not knowing what to say. If that's what he thought, why had he left her all his money?

"You deserve everything I'm leaving you," he rasped. "Here, take it." His shrunken lips curled in a grin full of knowing irony and amusement.

Suddenly, his eyes were empty and his fingers released her wrist. For a moment she thought that he was dead, but then a cold, hard pressure filled her, leaving no room for fear for, or even thought of, Uncle Justin. It felt like a strong, cold hand had taken hold of her soul. It gave a wrench and a twist, and she found herself floating in mid-air, looking down at the room. Uncle Justin's body lay slack in the bed, and her own -- her own! -- body sat slumped over in the chair. She flailed around, struggling for balance, and felt an emptiness, the pull of a vacuum that wanted to be filled. She plunged down into it, and after a dizzying whirl, looked around and saw herself smiling down at her.

She tried to scream, but all she could manage was a croak.

"There, there," she said to herself. Her body said to her soul. "Don't try to fight it -- I know what I'm doing, and you don't. Just relax and let it happen."

Candy wailed, but the only result was that her laboring heart stopped beating, which made her scream again but she didn't have a throat or a mouth or lungs to pump air and the world was a swirling grey tunnel. Thrashing and sobbing with terror while soundless and unmoving in her non-existence, Candy Kendal slid down into the vortex.



The old man on the bed went limp, his eyes still huge and round and staring, his mouth agape with a last thread of drool glistening on his stubbled chin. Justin Kendal, who was now Candy Kendal, looked down at the body he -- no, she -- had inhabited for the last sixty years with a fond smile. It had served him well and deserved the fancy funeral Thomas had arranged for it.

Candy Kendal, who had been Justin Kendal, who had been Theodore Kendal, who had been Alma Mayhew, who had been Lillian Mayhew, who had been Harrison Langtry -- the soul which had inhabited all those bodies and taken on all those identities, had learned to appreciate the merits of a living body, no matter how attractive or ugly. Even a weaker body was better than none at all. Alma Mayhew had spent the last forty years of her life in a wheelchair and had maintained control of a substantial shipping fortune despite her limited mobility.

Candy's body, though, was going to be a pleasure to inhabit. Young and strong, with decades ahead of her and enough physical attractiveness to be useful -- yes, this one was going to be most satisfactory. "Candy" stretched in the chair and then ran her hands over herself, feeling muscles and curves, shoulders and breasts, flat stomach and strong calves.

The soul of Harrison Langtry spared a moment of pity for the original Candy, but only a moment. She'd been a grasping little bitch who was willing to murder for money and she deserved to be murdered in her turn.

Everyone he'd ever ousted from their body had deserved it. It was a thin comfort but the only salve with which he could soothe his withered old soul. Langtry's granddaughter Lillian had been just like Candy, but even more enterprising in her unwillingness to allow an old and sick man to die naturally. She'd dosed his evening milk with laudanum while his nurse's back was turned, then stood there smiling while his body shut down. When he'd felt the grey tunnel sucking him in, he'd grabbed for something, anything, and purely by chance he'd wrenched her out of her body. Lillian's soul had been sucked away, and he'd managed to hang onto her body long enough for his own soul to settle into it.

The one-third of his fortune for which Lillian had murdered, he found more than adequate for his needs. He'd multiplied it four times over by the time Lillian's body lay dying. By that time Lillian's sons were dead -- lost in the Civil War -- and the fortune went to her granddaughter-in-law Alma. Everything, including Lillian's old, dying body. Alma had been a selfish little twit, ignoring her husband's grandmother up until her last weeks of life, then gluing herself to the old woman's deathbed, fetching and carrying like a little saint.

Alma's great-nephew Theodore had manipulated his brother Sedgewick into running away to marry his Irish sweetheart by promising Sedgewick that he could talk their father around, when actually he'd encouraged the stiff-rumped old man to disinherit him. Since Alma's own son had died without children, the obvious and sole heir to the Mayhew fortune was Theodore, which suited Alma perfectly; Harrison's soul had wanted a male body again for some time, and Theodore's served nicely.

Theo's son Justin had followed the family tradition of turning out to be a selfish young bastard and Thomas had gone the same way. Harrison/Justin had fully planned to send Thomas to his justly-deserved fate, but he'd achieved it prematurely, with Candy's assistance. No matter; Candy's body would do just as well.

Candy stood up and stretched, enjoying the strength and freedom of her body after so many years in an old and feeble one. And then, in the space between two breaths, everything went grey.

No! Harrison Langtry saw his new body stagger, knocking over the glass-topped side table. The table fell with a crash onto the hardwood floor and he struggled against the sucking, swirling tunnel while dreading the sight of Candy's body -- his new body -- pitching over onto the jagged shards sticking up from the table's overturned pedestal. But instead of falling, Candy's body caught itself and straightened.

Five lifetimes of experience let him ignore the shock of Candy's body standing by itself, let him gather his control and push away from the grey tunnel. He reached back into Candy's body. And within it he found, impossibly, a soul.

Oh, no you don't! snarled Lillian Mayhew's soul, pushing him back out. You pulled that trick on me once, you old bastard, but I'm ready for you now!

The second shock made Langtry let go for an almost fatal instant, then his mind and his instincts kicked in again. He pushed against the vortex, fighting the pull of the portal to... to whatever it was, with all his strength, while the only possible scenario flashed to the front of his thoughts. The nurse! She'd been in the room when his original body had died, when he'd dispossessed Lillian. She must have evicted the nurse in her turn, and survived, all this time. But where? Where had she been up to now?

Thomas, of course, you idiot. I had it all set -- you'd leave the fortune to me, and then when you tried to take over I'd kick you back out and through the portal. All that money you've been playing with for all these lifetimes was mine! You cheated me of my money and my life, my family, my status! You owe me, and now I'm taking back what's mine!

Langtry could feel Lillian settling in, strengthening her grip on Candy's body.

I can beat her, he babbled to himself, I know I can. She must've been hanging on all this time, fighting the swirling tunnel for the twenty hours -- so long! -- since Thomas died. She's weak and vulnerable and I'm fresh and strong.

Desperate to oust her before her hold grew too firm, before fighting the vortex weakened him, he made a grab for her, pulling with all his strength.

He struggled with Lillian, two old souls each desperate to send the other to the grey void, each determined to put off the final discovery for one more lifetime. Langtry was wily and ruthless and terrified of failure, but he could feel the same in Lillian. No matter how he twisted and pushed, no matter what tricks he used, he couldn't gain enough advantage to evict her from the body -- his body. But neither could she oust him, although her efforts were strong and slippery. Blocking her, staying out of her ethereal reach while maneuvering for a hold on her, was wearing him out.

He felt himself weaken and pushed down panic. All his effort, all his concentration, focused on Lillian, and the only other thing nearby with a chance of intruding upon his attention was the gaping grey maw hovering so near. He could feel Lillian focused just as narrowly on him, on the fight, her anger and hatred and fear thrust at him again and again.

And in the morass of desperation and concentration and panic, both neglected to mind the body over which they fought, neither willing to sacrifice one iota of strength or attention. Candy's body, with no one controlling it, pitched over and landed impaled on the jagged shards of the glass pedestal table.

Still grappling with each other, Harrison Langtry and Lillian Mayhew found themselves cast into nothingness, with only a pair of corpses within their reach.

Shrieking curses at each other, both souls were sucked down the grey vortex, to discover at last what lay on the other side.