The Tea Party - A Novel of Horror by Charles L. Grant

first ring.
    Liz toed off her shoes and sighed silently as the amenities were cleared away, then straightened just as she was about to slip the belt from her waist.
    “Say that again, Mr. Parrish?”
    “Mrs. Egan, the reason I wish to speak to you is that I have a client, a rather good client, who wishes to purchase your home if you are willing to sell.”
    “Mr. Parrish, I . . . there’s never been any intention of selling this house. Never.”
    Heather looked startled, almost panicked, and Liz shook her head sharply to calm her.
    “I see.”
    “Uh, would you mind telling me who this person is?”
    “I’m afraid that would be impossible, Mrs. Egan. At least, for the moment. But I can assure you the offer is quite legitimate. And very generous.”
    “I can’t argue with that at all, Mr. Parrish. It’s three times what Ron and I paid for it, and frankly, three times what it’s worth.”
    “Well, in my position I have learned there is no accounting for some people’s interests.”
    She made a noise that might have been agreement, or a cough from the meal that was trying to make her belch.
    “In any case, Mrs. Egan, thank you for returning my call. And do think about it, if you will. As a favor to me. And should you change your mind . . .”
    “Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t think I will.”
    She rang off and stared at the grey-tiled hall that ran toward the screened front door until Heather reminded her that Clark Davermain would be here soon and was he really going to be their new father? She smiled and patted the girl’s shoulder. “I really don’t know, love. I do think he’ll ask me to marry him, though.”
    Heather’s eyes widened. “What are you gonna say?”
    “I don’t know that, either.”
    “He’s fat.”
    Liz’s expression turned diplomatically blank. “He is not.”
    “He pulls my pigtails.”
    “I’m sure you’ll survive,” she muttered as she opened the refrigerator. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. What do you think about a salad for dinner? I don’t think I’m going to feel much like cooking.”
    “It’s all right with me, Mom, but Keith’s gonna croak.”

    Ten minutes later the weekend sally began.
    “Mom c ’mon! ”
    “Keith,” she said wearily from the top of the stairs, “I hate to keep reminding you of this, but you are only eleven years old. And it gets rather dark out here in the country, in case you’ve forgotten.”
    Keith dropped gloomily onto the bottom step, faced the front door, and slammed his elbow onto his knees, his cheeks heavily into his palms. “Aw, Mom, the Gang’s gonna fall apart if I’m not there. I promised them.”
    “The Gang,” she said, not without sympathy, “will just have to muddle through alone this one time, okay? If they can’t come here, you can’t go there. You are not to leave the neighborhood, and that’s final.”
    “But Heather—”
    “—is only going to Mary Grum’s, two very short blocks away. She’ll be back when it’s dark, and you two can watch TV until your eyes fall out.”
    “But there’s nothing on, they’re all reruns!”
    “Then read a book.”
    “Jeez, what a pain.”
    “If you want to leave the house alive, young man,” she said sternly, her arms folded across her chest, “you will explain that remark.”
    He looked up quickly and pointed to his right knee. “A pain,” he said, wincing proof of his agony. “I hit it with my elbow.”
    “Nice,” she said. “Good work, you get to live.”

    She stood anxiously at the bathroom mirror, hunting for the lines beneath the makeup, hoping the sun wasn’t drying her out. Her nerves forced a faint tic by her right eye, and she pressed the heel of one hand against it, to kill it.
    “Mom, do I have to?”
    Heather stood in the doorway, downcast, already defeated and making the most of her martyrdom.
    “Dark is dark, my dear. You know the rules when I’m gone.”
    “But I’m thirteen years old! I’ll be fourteen soon!”
    “And I’m