Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land

by James Herbert

  Whatever, it had given me a headache. "A nice display, Mycroft, but what was it for? To impress us?"

  "Perhaps."

  "We're impressed. Now can we leave?"

  "You let us see your power," said Midge, leaning forward eagerly.

  "I revealed a channel to power, one that courses through my own body and mind," Mycroft replied. "There are other . . . stronger channels around us that can be sought and found. Access points, conduits—call them what you will. They can be used . . ."

  He suddenly clammed up and avoided our eyes. I think he'd been getting carried away by his own genius.

  "I don't understand what you want from us," I persisted. "We're not interested in becoming Synergists, or anything like this . . ."

  "I think your partner is," he came back, mysterious as ever.

  "Find them for me again," Midge said to him. "Let them speak to me. Let Mike hear for himself."

  We both knew whom she meant.

  I touched her hand. "This is madness. Can't you see what he's doing? Thought projection, mind manipulation, plain old-fashioned hypnotism—it's all part of the same thing. Nothing really happened. Mycroft is making us see all these things, they're not real—"

  "Their presence is in the room," interrupted Mycroft. "I can sense them, and so can you." He was addressing Midge.

  "Yes," she said simply.

  "They've more to tell you."

  She nodded.

  "They want you to listen."

  She nodded again, and her eyes closed.

  And now I could feel something else inside that room. But I wasn't sure if it was because Mycroft wanted me to.

  "They're speaking," said Midge in a hushed voice.

  "I can't hear anything." My own voice was a whisper.

  A breeze stirred around us.

  "They're faint, but they're here." Midge opened her eyes again.

  I noticed Mycroft's were boring into hers. Then he turned his attention to me and his pupils were like tiny black holes, bottomless but not empty.

  There was a shadow behind him. Gray and wispy, and moving forward. Another behind that one, appearing just beyond his left shoulder. Both taking on shimmering form.

  Voices, an eternity away. So faint. From another dimension. Yet not voices at all. Thoughts that pressed into ours.

  "Father?" said Midge.

  One of the flimsy clouds at Mycroft's shoulder shifted as if stirred by an air current. And the thought in my mind answered her.

  The breeze became a gust.

  "Show Mike that you're really here." It was a plea from Midge.

  The nebula took on more form: a vaporous head, a line of a shoulder. It became almost liquid, rippling as features shaped themselves. Those features slowly grew familiar to me, although they remained wavery and indistinct.

  A word insinuated itself into my mind:

  ". . . Trust . . ."

  But I didn't want to trust, because it was telling me to put my faith in Mycroft, this hazy spirit of Midge's dead father was telling me to believe in the Synergist, and I didn't want to because I knew he was a charlatan, that he had a purpose for Midge, but I didn't know what that purpose was, and I was going to resist, resist, I was going . . .

  My incredulous gaze was drawn to the second fluid shape hovering there by Mycroft's other shoulder and it, too, was familiar, a face from photographs shown to me by Midge many times in the past, and she, this ghost of a woman, told me the same:

  ". . . trust . . . in . . . him . . ."

  Midge was on her knees, reaching toward them, her upturned face fresh with its own glow despite the surrounding dimness, and I held her back, one arm around her shoulder, my other hand clenching her wrist; but still she shuffled forward, and it was toward Mycroft that she moved, on her knees, a cripple toward a faith healer, a follower toward her high priest.

  For one fleeting moment his concealing mask fell away, his resolve failing as he indulged in the pleasure of triumph.

  I caught that jubilant glint and something clicked inside my head, like a fingernail tapping on the window of my brain, warning me to accept none of this. These ghosts were just vapors, with no form and no thoughts.

  "It's a trick!" I yelled at Midge, dragging her down so that we both sprawled at Mycroft's feet. "That isn't your parents! He's making us see them!"

  She cried aloud, refuting my words, struggling against me.

  The gust had steadily risen to a gale, ruffling our clothes, dispersing the mists so that they were spread thinly, eventually to be whipped into nothing.

  Mycroft looked around as if startled, and that puzzled me. I wondered what new game he was playing. He suddenly seemed as confused as me. The Synergist half rose, but the wind tore at him so that he stumbled back. He raised the cane to beat at the storm, but then his eyes caught mine.

  On another occasion I might have laughed, seeing his mouth drop open the way it-tfid. Right then, though, the situation wasn't conducive to humor. He was staring disbelievingly at me and I didn't understand why.

  Until I became conscious of the cloud dribbling from my mouth like cigarette smoke.

  It came from my fingers too, snaking out in tendrils, curling into the air to be torn away by the wind that now howled, drawn from me into the room. It was as if my innards were burning and my mouth and fingertips were the points through which the smoke could escape; yet there was no pain, only a feathery lightness inside me.

  The mist billowed into the room, more and more extracted from me so that it gathered force, revolved in the air like a miniature whirlwind, with us at its center.

  And in it, there were other voices.

  They may have been as those before, sounds in our minds alone, but they seemed to come from around us. These had nothing to do with Mycroft, because he was cowering behind his cane as if it were a shield.

  When the voices became coherent their message was different:

  ". . . Leave this place . . . leave this house . . ."

  Two voices, two mental sounds; and they howled together with the wind.

  Midge watched the storming mists and her face was sodden with tears.

  Her voice was like a child's, a five-year-old's: "Mummy . . . Daddy . . ."

  I was scared shitless.

  "Mumeeee. . . Daddeeee . . .!"

  Now she looked like a child.

  I clambered to my feet, relieved at least that the cloudy flow had stopped trailing from me. Midge's eyes were wide and imploring. Mycroft was still crouching on the floor, his eyes wide too, but with fear. That suited me fine.

  "Come on, Midge." I reached for her.

  She focused on me instantly. "Yes," she cried. "Yes!"

  As she rose, so the winds quickly died, and the vapors were soon drifting, then hanging, in the air. They began to dissolve.

  I didn't wait any longer. I dragged Midge to the door, scraping my back as we entered the squared section of the sloping wall. I yanked the door open and there were Kinsella and Bone Man waiting, a couple of other Synergists with them. They looked anxious enough.

  I bunched my fist. "Keep away from us! Just fucking keep away!"

  Kinsella looked uncertain, but he had the muscle. He began crowding me.

  "No!" came Mycroft's voice from within the pyramid room. "Not here! Let them go." Then weaker: "Let them go . . ."

  We went. We went like bats out of hell.

  FLIGHT

  THAT SLOPING field to the woods might not have seemed so steep on the descent, but going up was different: I had the feeling we were climbing a down escalator. My thigh muscles were soon aching, the weight of Midge clinging to me making the ascent even more awkward. The first line of trees seemed a long way off.

  But we'd been frightened, and there's nothing like a good scare to get the adrenalin pumping. Our flight may have lacked style, but it wasn't short of effort.

  Midge stumbled once, about halfway up the incline, and as I hauled her to her feet again I glanced back at the house. It stood as a huge m
onolith, brooding gray and tomb-cold; it looked about ready to uproot and lumber after us. Although I couldn't see into those dark window eyes, I knew the Synergists were watching from them.

  Midge was already breathing hard and there was a fragility about her that was worrying.

  "What. . . what happened in there, Mike?" she managed to gasp.

  "Mycroft," was all I said.

  Gripping her elbow, I pulled her onward, keeping her upright and moving, keen to be under cover, away from those eyes. Progress seemed bad-dream slow, as though mud was sucking our feet; yet the soil beneath the grass was summer-dry and firm. Eventually I had to slip an arm around Midge's waist and support her against my hip to keep her going.

  The light was poor, the sun no more than a florid dome on the horizon. Night was sinking in. And the forest would soon be a dark place.

  Without stopping, I twisted my head to look behind us again, and maybe I was expecting Synergists (the initiates— that's what they really were) to be pouring from their Temple, giving chase; no figures were loping up the hill after us, though, and the house was still and grave as before. So why the hell did I feel someone breathing down our necks?

  We made it to the trees, running as if to a Vangelis soundtrack, motion dreary slow, exertion exaggerated. But we were finally there and the relief was immediate, a burden lifted, a rubberband snapped. I told myself the reviving coolness of the forest was responsible, but I sensed there was more to it than that. We were out of sight of the house.

  Midge leaned against me, arms limply going around my neck, her chest heaving as she struggled to regain her breath. I kissed the top of her head, welcoming her back, sinking a hand into her hair and keeping her close. I gave her time to recover, letting her calm herself, reassuring her with whispers. But I didn't want to wait there too long.

  The dusk was fast becoming threatening, the shadows between trees concealing. Branches above us were like contorted arms, agitated by our intrusion, some reaching down as if ready to snag us should we pass within reach; nearby foliage rippled as something slithered beneath its sprawl. There were other eyes inside this forest, and these were wary, uneasy at our presence.

  "We'd better keep moving," I said to Midge, stroking her cheek with the back of my finger, "before it gets too dark to find our way home."

  "I need to understand, Mike. I need to know what's happened to us, what happened there inside the Temple."

  "We'll talk as we go."

  She held on to me.

  "Forgive me for the way I've acted over the last few days," she said quietly. "I can't explain why, or what I was thinking—why I blamed you for so much."

  "It isn't your fault. I think . . . I think other influences have been involved. Look, I don't know, this is all so weird, everything that's happened since we came to Gramarye has been crazy, and somehow we've accepted it—or let's say, not questioned the craziness too much. It's not your fault, Midge, but it is something to do with you. You and the cottage."

  I led her away, taking her by the hand as if she were an infant, and I talked as we went, telling her about the picture she'd painted for the storybook years before—the one her own mind had not let her remember— how Gramarye had been part of that illustration long before she'd ever set eyes on the place, that it had obviously already existed somewhere inside her, locked away in her subconscious, a precognition of something or somewhere that would eventually be. I reminded her that it was she who had spotted the ad for Gramarye in the newspaper—had called that one alone, ignoring any others. And the association, the union, was sealed as soon as she arrived there. It was meant to be! Flora Chaldean's solicitor had told me of the instructions the old lady had left with him before she'd died, details of the type of person who should be allowed to buy and live in Gramarye. Someone young, someone sensitive, someone whose decency was plainly evident. Someone "special." Those were the requirements and no wonder the aged solicitor had shown such keen interest in her.

  "The cottage was meant for someone like you, Midge." I pushed away branches blocking our path. "Don't ask me why, I can't give you any sensible answers. All I can guess is that there's something inside you that's attuned to whatever magic there is in Gramarye."

  She pulled me to a halt.

  "Magic?"

  I shrugged. "Yeah, I'm embarrassed. But what else can I call it? Remember the bird with the broken wing? We kidded ourselves that it couldn't have been as badly hurt as we'd thought when we found it flying around the kitchen the next day. And all those other little things. The flowers that sprang up, the animals and birds that flocked around the door. That isn't normal—we just adjusted ourselves to make it seem that way. Maybe some kind of relationship with the wildlife could have been built up after a few years— but right away?"

  I started walking again and she hurried to keep up.

  "The cottage itself. Look at all those things that were wrong with it—the warped doors, rotted wood, the cracked lintel! O'Malley didn't fix those things. They fixed themselves, for Chrissake! Because of you!"

  My voice reverberated around the forest. I stopped again to look at her.

  "And, yeah, my arm. We thought Mycroft had healed the burns, but now I don't think it was him at all. Sure, he's got some kind of power—we've just had a demonstration of that. But that's from his head, it's what he makes people believe! He convinced me. my arm didn't hurt any more—maybe that liquid he used helped somehow—and something got the better of my skepticism. Shit, who wants to hurt if they don't have to? But my guess is that you were the one who really healed it. No—you and Gramarye. You're a goddamn team! Jesus, no wonder Mycroft was interested in you! What a great little catch for his Synergist movement. Human will and Divine Power—you're a living example."

  She was watching me and shaking her head, but I could tell by her eyes that she believed what I was saying. A bird fluttered from a tree ahead of us and we turned to watch nervously. A section of leaves had been left swaying and we stood there until they'd steadied themselves. The forest became still once more and we noticed the gloom was weighing heavier.

  "Are we on the right path?" I asked Midge, looking every-which-way.

  For a moment she was uncertain; then she nodded. "There should be a branch-off soon. We take the righthand fork."

  "If you say so," I said grimly.

  We moved on, keeping to a fast walk, ears and eyes open. Sometimes there's a hush in a forest when the light's on dimmer that's almost churchlike, where a cough or even a whisper seems irreverently loud; I kept my voice low, not wishing to disturb anyone.

  "I can't help wondering what went on between old Flora and Mycroft, why she went to the trouble of putting that clause in her Will barring him from ever taking possession of Gramarye. What difference would it have made to her once she was gone? And why the hell did he lie to us about never having been there unless he had something to do with her death?"

  "You really think they tried to frighten her into selling?"

  "I think they succeeded in frightening her so much it killed her. We've seen for ourselves what Mycroft's mental powers are capable of. Making rabbits and rats appear out of thin air is nothing to him. Wine? I bet I could've drunk the stuff without realizing it was an illusion. And making us believe he could bend light beams. He's ace, Midge, a numero uno illusionist. I hate to consider what he might have made that poor old lady imagine. A tiger on the doorstep? The kitchen on fire around her? Her own heart crumbling to dust inside her chest? He wouldn't have had to lay a finger on her."

  "I don't believe she was that helpless, Mike."

  "Matter of fact, neither do I. She'd have put up quite a struggle, but then her age was against her. Maybe her old heart just gave up of its own accord."

  We'd reached the fork in the track and I stepped aside to let Midge take the lead. "It's up to you, Chingachgook. You've got the nose for direction. You sure it's right?"

  "If we don't come across a fallen cedar on the path within two minutes then you'll know
I got it wrong."

  "I remember. It's lying head-down in a gulley."

  "That's the one."

  She went ahead of me and I followed her slim form through the forest, our footsteps never slackening for a moment, both of us eager to be out in the open as soon as possible. I didn't like the feel of the woods and the way Midge constantly looked around her instead of straight at the path in front; neither did she. And although we'd left the Synergists far behind, the prickly sensation of being followed was still with me.

  Midge pointed and I saw the dead tree about a hundred yards further along. We broke into a trot as though the barrier were a goal to be reached, and our footfalls were mushy-loud in the stillness. I caught sight of a tawny owl, perched high on a branch and watching us with aloof interest, lids occasionally descending like camera shutters over the big round eyes as if recording the event.

  Midge collapsed against the rough bark of the tree and I collapsed against her.

  "Best we keep going," I advised, breathing heavy and slumping onto the trunk.

  She ran her hands down her face, continuing down her neck. "Was it them, Mike? Or was that just Mycroft's trickery too? Their voices . . . they sounded so much like . . ."

  I hesitated before answering. "I'm pretty sure it began as a fake. But later on . . . hell, I don't know what happened later on."

  "At the end it was my parents. I know it was them! Their warning brought me to my senses. Everything I'd believed about Mycroft just fell away . . ."

  I slid over the tree trunk and extended an arm back for her. "There's too much to think about for now, Midge. Let's just get back to the cottage while we can still see our way."

  She scrambled over and took time to kiss my neck before we hurried on. I don't think I'd have found my way back without her, the trail was becoming so dim; but she kept on, only occasionally stopping to examine a choice of direction or a particular landmark (a cluster of red toadstools beneath another, virtually hollowed, fallen tree was the only one I recognized). My back was damp with sweat and a stiffness was developing in my thighs; ahead of me, Midge was beginning to falter, her steps losing rhythm.