Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land

by James Herbert

  Even Midge, in her present state of blind fascination, blanched at that.

  "That's asking a lot of someone, isn't it?" I remarked.

  "The rewards are impressive," he countered smoothly.

  "What would they be?"

  "Oneness in spirit."

  "Sounds terrific."

  His flicker of annoyance was barely discernible.

  "A regeneration of the mind's powers."

  I nodded as though checking off a list.

  "A harnessing of earthly thaumaturgic potency."

  Now that did sound impressive, whatever the hell it meant. I felt it only right that I should ask.

  "Unless you subjected yourself to each stage of the Synergist development," he said by way of an answer, "you could not hope to understand. Would you acknowledge now, for instance, that vast sources of power lie beneath our feet?"

  I caught some anxious expressions directed at him from the others in the room, but Mycroft remained impassive.

  "Of course," I replied. "Everybody accepts there's huge energy resources in the earth. There's nothing astounding about that proposition."

  "I'm referring to a power much more intangible, Mike, but equally real. Something incorporeal, yet vast in its reserves. And we, mankind, have almost—almost— forgotten how to avail ourselves of that force."

  Self-knowledge, oneness, regeneration, potency, thaumaturgic (thaumaturgic?), intangible, incorporeal (always a good one), and now of course, mankind—all those profound (and cliché) words you find in books on religion or the occult which sound great but leave you scratching your head wondering what it's all about.

  "You've lost me completely," I said flatly.

  He smiled maddeningly again and I think my dumb incomprehension came almost as a relief to him, as though my provocation had led him into giving away too much, and now he was able to draw back. His philosophy obviously had to be administered in much smaller doses.

  But Midge was more persistent. "Is that how you healed Mike's hand so quickly, somehow combining your will with this special force? Is this power the spirit, the Divine Spirit, that you've mentioned before?"

  I took a large swallow of wine.

  "Ah, so young and so perceptive," Mycroft patronized. "But not entirely correct. The human will can be extremely potent by itself."

  She looked confused and I wanted to draw her close. I wondered how she'd react if I invited our guests to take a hike.

  Something struck a window from outside—probably t bird, or maybe even a disorientated bat—and Kinsella spilled his drink. He and his friends turned toward the window, but Midge's attention remained on the Synergist leader.

  "When we . . . when we spoke before, last week at the Temple, you told me that our individual spirit never loses its potential even if the body dies and even if the spirit has been neglected during the body's life."

  He nodded slowly.

  "And you said that we, ourselves, could reach those spirits of the dead."

  "With guidance," said Mycroft. "But why so cautious? Why are you so afraid to voice your hopes? We spoke of your parents and I assured you then that the souls which existed within them can be touched, and heard, once more. That part of us will never expire."

  "Then will you help me . . . ?"

  "Midge!" I didn't want her to go on with this.

  "No, Mike. If it can happen, then that's what I want. More than anything!" She turned back to Mycroft.

  "What good will it do?" I demanded. "You're only opening yourself up for more heartache, don't you see that?"

  "I understand your concern for Midge," Mycroft interrupted. "And it's precisely because of your love for her that you should support her in this matter. I know you're aware that she feels a deep need to be reconciled with her parents."

  "Reconciled?" I stared at her and she lowered her face.

  Mycroft was watching her too. He opened his mouth in an unvoiced "ah" of comprehension, then settled back in the armchair.

  "What's he talking about?" I leaned over and cupped her chin, forcing her to look at me.

  "Mike, I . . ."

  She pulled her head away.

  "Would it be easier if I answered for you?" said Mycroft. "I had no idea that you hadn't confided your feelings to Mike, but now I understand. Sometimes it's easier to reveal oneself to a sympathetic stranger than a loved one."

  "Midge, if there's something I should know, I'd rather it came from you," I insisted. "And I'd rather we were alone when you told me."

  Gillie put her hand on Midge's, and it was Kinsella who spoke up: "This is sounding more dramatic than it really is, Mike. In our view, Midge's guilt is unfounded, but it needs to be dug out and tossed away before real damage is done. We can help her do that."

  "Guilt? What the fuck are you talking about?" I looked around at them all, bewildered, exasperated, and pretty angry, too.

  Midge abruptly shifted round to me, her hands clutching my leg. "On the day of my father's funeral, when I left Mother in the house—I knew, Mike, I knew she would take her own life! She'd spoken of it so many times, before his death even, hating the burden she'd become to both of us. When he died, suicide was on her mind more and more, something she mentioned every day and every night! But calmly, never hysterically, never emotionally. She was so sad, Mike, but she never indulged in self-pity. All she cared about was that her misery shouldn't ruin my life! And when I left her in the house that morning—alone in that cold, empty house—I felt it so strongly, so overpoweringly, but I never went back. I never tried to stop her!"

  I shook my head despairingly.

  "Midge, you couldn't know she would kill herself. Okay, you might have had the notion because she was so desperately unhappy and suffering physical pain, but you didn't hand her those pills, you didn't tie that plastic bag around her head! I can't believe you've been blaming yourself all these years."

  "I realized if the opportunity arose Mother might—"

  "Might! That isn't the same as knowing for sure. It was her choice, don't you understand that! And what was so bad about that, for Chrissake? Don't you think your mother suffered enough? All she did was show herself a little mercy."

  "It's not that simple."

  "Nothing ever is. But even if you did feel so guilty, why go to these people, why tell them? Jesus, Midge, what was wrong in telling me?"

  "I'd kept . . . I'd kept it hidden for so long." Her grip tightened on my leg. "That knowledge has never weighed so heavily on me until recently, Mike. It was only when I talked with Mycroft that I realized the guilt had been with me for so long."

  Friend Mycroft. I eyed him coolly.

  And received some satisfaction from observing that he actually looked unsettled. Mistakenly, I assumed he was becoming wary of my anger.

  Nevertheless, he wasn't short of words. "I merely sought to understand the nature of Midge's deep-rooted grief, possibly to expose her self-doubts. Can't you see that she needs our guidance?"

  "I can see that you've made her believe that. Any help she needs, she can get from me."

  "Not in the way that we can help."

  He'd become distracted, peering around the room.

  "What can you do?" I retorted. "Hold a séance, is that how you'll help her?"

  "She has a unique gift . . ."

  His voice trailed off when someone moaned. On the floor, Neil Joby was tugging at his shirt collar as if he found the atmosphere stifling. It did feel close in the room, but not uncomfortably so.

  "Mike, you've got them wrong." Midge was looking up at me with earnest eyes. "Synergism is an answer if it's used correctly. If—"

  "Jesus, you're really falling for this shit."

  She sprang away as though I'd struck her.

  I quickly modified my tone. "Listen to me: if there was any guilt over your mother's death locked up inside you, then it was minimal. Christ, I know you better than anyone, and that's something you could never have concealed from me. All this guy's done . . ." I stabbed a finger in
Mycroft's direction ". . .is made you exaggerate the guilt in your own mind. Can't you see how he operates? It's nothing new—most religious nuts work on people's own self-imposed shame."

  She kept shaking her head, refusing to hear the words.

  "You're wrong," she said, "you're so wrong . . ."

  Something made me glance at Mycroft then, and I just caught the hint of triumph in his smile. The smile instantly turned into one of well-practiced friendliness, forgiving me for my folly.

  "Fuck you," I said quietly.

  A glass tipped over and wine spread on the carpet. Kinsella watched the liquid soak in before turning toward his leader and mentor.

  And now Mycroft himself didn't look so bright.

  The windows rattled in their frames and attention was diverted toward them. I noticed that Joby was deathly pale and still appeared to be having trouble catching his breath.

  Rafters overhead creaked.

  The sharpness of the sound startled Gillie so much that she stood and peered up at the ceiling.

  "There's a wind blowing up outside," I said, feeling no particular antagonism toward her. "Don't worry, the roof'll stay on."

  She seemed uncertain.

  I pointed at Joby and addressed my next remark to Mycroft. "I hope he's not going to puke on the carpet."

  Now the front door across the hallway shook in its frame.

  Mycroft rose and walked over to the younger man, placing a hand on his forehead. He mumbled a few words and I strained to hear, but the words were spoken too softly.

  Joby noisily cleared his throat and recovered enough to push himself to his knees. Kinsella, looking shaky himself, grabbed his friend from behind and helped him the rest of the way up.

  Even Gillie swayed uneasily on her feet.

  Mycroft positioned himself before Midge, studying her with eyes that were now hooded. Had I really once thought his face was bland? It wasn't only shadows making his countenance creepy now, but his expression also. Mr. Hyde was showing through.

  His words were slow and penetrating, said in a low voice. "Remember, we can help you. Believe in the regeneration of the spirit, understand that there are few barriers to the human will."

  I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd handed her his business card.

  He took his eyes from her and surveyed the room once more, lingering on the windows, resuming the scan, taking in everything.

  A different noise came to us, and it was from above our heads, a muffled pattering, almost a soft vibration, rising and swaying in volume and rhythm.

  A frantic beating of small wings.

  I knew where the noise was coming from and who was making it, and I began to get as nervous as our guests.

  "Mycroft," said Kinsella, a hint of pleading in his tone. "It's time to go."

  Joby, sagging visibly, seemed in agreement. In fact, the three young Synergists looked as if strength was gradually draining from them. They were all very pale.

  The windowpanes shook so hard I thought they might shatter. This time I was the one who jumped to his feet. Only Midge remained sitting.

  "I'll see you out," I told the Synergists.

  Mycroft turned to me, no hostility in his gaze, only a cool appraisal.

  "You mustn't stand in her way," he said to me.

  "What I can't figure," I replied, starting to feel a bit trembly, "is why you're so interested in Midge. D'you always take this kind of trouble to convert a new face?"

  On the surface, his manner was easy, almost casual; but the giveaway was his eyes, which were constantly moving, flicking this way and that, like those of a jungle explorer waiting for the first poison dart.

  Midge, hunched forward on the sofa, hands clasped together on knees, spoke up: "Would you please stop talking about me as though I'm not in the room? Mike, there are certain things that you obviously have no interest in, nor comprehension of, so please don't interfere. These people are my friends—our friends—and all they care about is my peace of mind."

  "Don't you think I care too?"

  "Then show me! Help me!"

  "We'll talk about it when they're gone," I said more calmly than I felt.

  "Yes, you should," said Mycroft, the condescending bastard. "Mike has a right to his opinions. It isn't difficult to appreciate his skepticism given the usually poor and biased publicity that sects such as ours attract. Misguided though they are, these prejudices are accepted and tolerated by our members. We've learned to have patience."

  Mine had just run out. I strode across to the open door and stood by it, my meaning fairly evident.

  Mycroft smiled, but I could see the grimness there. He reached down and touched Midge's forehead in the same manner he'd touched Joby's earlier.

  The frantic, if dulled, drumming from overhead was becoming hard to ignore, and the air in the room seemed too warm, too thick, despite the wind outside rattling the windows.

  My head shot around when the door across the hallway rampaged against its lock and hinges.

  Alarmed, I backed away, but at least the Synergists were galvanized into action. The three younger members grouped together and Mycroft indicated that they were to follow him. They came toward me like a worried Scout pack looking for the way home, Kinsella and Gillie supporting their companion between them. I observed, not without pleasure, that even the Synergist leader was wilting slightly under the heavy atmosphere.

  The bats in the attic were working themselves up into a frenzy by now and I wondered if the cause of their upset was the freak gale skimming through the roofs eaves, creating some kind of maelstrom in the loft. I thought I could hear their faint peeping shrieks, but put it down to overstretched imagination.

  Mycroft paused at the door to the hallway, and for a moment I thought he might take the downstairs route out; instead he turned back to Midge and said, "I'm ready to be your ally whenever you need me, whenever you find your courage. You'll find only by seeking."

  She stared at him, a small, lost figure, her hands still clutched together on her knees; but she didn't say anything in return.

  Then Mycroft marched into the hall and yanked at the outside door, pulling it open without hesitation.

  I expected the wind to come howling in and steadied myself for the blast. But there was nothing. Not even a breeze to ruffle our hair.

  He stepped into the night, the others crowding behind him as though anxious to keep close, and I hurried across the hallway to shut the door again. Before I did so, I watched them make an unsteady descent of the stone steps, the gloom out there making progress slow. If it wouldn't have proved inconvenient for me, I'd have cheerfully hoped that at least one of them would break a leg.

  They disappeared around the curve and I relaxed a little, more than relieved to see them gone. But I blinked at the night, mystified as to how it had calmed so suddenly. As far as I could tell, not a blade of grass stirred, not a leaf was tossed. The air was mild and fresh and pleasant to breathe.

  And when I went back inside, closing and locking the door behind me, even the bats had settled, not a sound coming down from above.

  Only the strong musty odor was left to unsettle me.

  GHOSTS

  AND THAT'S NOT all. That wasn't the end of it that night.

  I awoke later and it was very dark in the bedroom, shadows blending into deeper shadows, odd bits of furniture becoming more than they really were, transformed into sinister shapes that lurked rather than just stood.

  Midge was sitting up beside me, and it was either her movement or the tension she gave out that roused me, because she hadn't reached for me, nor called my name.

  Alertness sprang at me, not bothering with creeping up, and I pushed myself onto my elbows. Midge's arm was stiff and unyielding when I touched her, the skin roughened by goose bumps.

  "What is it?" I whispered urgently, not knowing why I'd whispered.

  She didn't answer right away.

  I was grabbing for the lamp switch when her voice stopped me.

 
"They were here," she said breathlessly. "Oh, Mike, they were here."

  I turned back to her and held her in the darkness.

  "Who were here? What are you talking about?"

  She shivered in my arms.

  "I sensed them both." There was a shaky kind of awe in her whisper. "I felt I could almost reach out and touch them. They were here in this room."

  "Midge, who the hell are you talking about?"

  I heard her weeping, but there was no sadness in her voice when she spoke again.

  "My mother . . . my father. They tried to speak to me. They need to, don't you see?"

  I held on to her and my flesh prickled as much as hers.

  BIRTH DAY

  WAKING UP next morning was more gradual.

  Still blurry-headed, I turned over in the bed to snuggle up to Midge. She wasn't there, though.

  Cranking open eyelids that felt as heavy as garage doors, I squinted at her side of the bed to confirm what touch (or lack of it) had already told me. Further thoughts trailed along at a more leisurely pace, taking a little while to come together, but memories of the night before, post-Mycroft included, eventually shifted the last threads of drowsiness.

  I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Cold light of day and all that: last night's traumatic episodes, both of them, now seemed unreal. The Synergists' menace just stopped short of being farcical on reflection—I mean, neither of us was naive enough to fall under their influence, we weren't kids, receptive to being drawn into such a ridiculous cult. We were nonconsenting adults. Yet Midge had been more than a mite spellbound by Mycroft, there was no doubt of that, and I realized there was more to the man than I had assumed on our first meeting, when his charisma had been understated to say the least. Maybe that was part of his allure, his very ordinariness negating any suggestion of charlatanism.

  After his fairly ignominious departure last night, Midge and I had been too wound up for a sensible discussion on what had happened and where it was leading to. When I pointed out yet again that something was going on inside Gramarye itself, all she did was announce she was too tired for further arguments and was going to bed.