by V. J. Banis
And the women to whom she spoke, as well as the men to whom the Doctor spoke, clucked their tongues and stayed their distance as Jennifer went by.
She was alone. It was this fact, more than the death of her mother, that saddened Jennifer. She was twenty-six, a slim pale girl who had already begun to think of herself as a spinster. She was pretty, in a frail sort of way, but she did not know it, because no one had ever told her. She had no suitors, nor friends of any kind—no one to whom she could turn now for consolation or companionship.
She knew that people regarded her as peculiar. Always, she had been kept at a distance from other people. As a little girl she had not been permitted to have friends. They had lived, she and her mother, very nearly as hermits, and by the time her first year at school had ended, Jennifer already knew that the other children thought her “funny,” and made up little rhymes about her: “Jenny, Jenny, eat a daisy, Jenny, Jenny, you are crazy.” It had made her withdraw, and cooperate in her mother’s efforts to isolate them.
For twenty-six years her life had centered around her mother, that strong, demanding creature whose demands had finally ceased so abruptly. For years Jennifer had been not so much a daughter as a combination of companion and house servant, and later, of course, nurse. Her time and her energies had belonged not to herself but to Elenora Rand exclusively. Every mood, every notion, every whim had been at the request of, or merely a reflection of, the older woman. She had resented her role, and yet she had hidden her resentment and played it without complaint, because she had been trained to do just that.
She reached home, the simple white cottage she had lived in for as long as she could remember. It was neat and clean and thoroughly respectable. The shutters were closed over the windows, as they always had been.
Once again the sensation of aloneness came over her and Jennifer stopped, half frightened of entering the house. It held no welcome for her. It was where she had lived, it was now all she had or was in life; but it was not home to her uneasy spirit.
There was no place else for her to go. She climbed the three steps that led to the front door and entered the hall, with a quick furtive manner as if afraid someone might try to follow.
It was not until she had dutifully put her coat away in the closet and had gone into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea that she remembered the letter. It had come the day before and, puzzled by it, she had put it aside to read it later when the bother and distraction of the funeral was over.
She went to her bedroom—not to her mother’s room, where she had been sleeping on the little bed, but to her own bedroom, that she had returned to. The letter was in the drawer of her dresser, next to a strand of cultured pearls. She had ordered the pearls from a mail order catalog, and her mother had been angry when they came; but she had relented, and allowed Jennifer to keep them, “for special occasions.” They had never been worn. Jennifer had considered wearing them to the funeral, but had not been able to decide on her own whether that was the right sort of special occasion, and in the end she had gone without them.
Jennifer took the letter back to the kitchen, but she did not read it until her tea was ready and she was seated at the small kitchen table. Then she opened it carefully and unfolded the single sheet of paper.
It was the opening line that most puzzled her: “Your mother asked us to write and....”
It was from someone who signed her name Aunt Christine. Strange, although Jennifer had searched her mother’s personal papers more than once since the death, carefully examining every item in the small desk, she had found no trace of any relatives. And now here was this letter, signed Aunt Christine, and saying, “Your mother asked us to write and invite you to visit with us at Kelsey House.”
Of course her mother had known for a year or more that she was dying; no doctor would have dared to conceal the fact from her. It was entirely possible that, in a flash of foresight, she had written to her sisters, those long neglected relatives, explaining that her daughter would soon be in need of family ties. And they of course had seen the obituary notice in the newspapers.
What was odd, though, was that they had made no attempt to attend the services, nor even to send flowers. Had they done even the latter, the single wreath that Jennifer had herself provided might not have looked so forlorn. There was not even an expression of sympathy in the letter, although perhaps that might be attributable to tact.
Jennifer tasted her tea, found it cool, and sipped it slowly. Since her mother’s death she had been busy with funeral arrangements and putting affairs in order. The house was hers, with no entanglements, and the money in the bank was sufficient to provide for her modest needs. Her time was her own. For someone who had never known time of her own, that should have been a source of joy.
The fact was that it was not, though. Not until this very morning, with the funeral actually at hand, had she realized the absolute emptiness of her life. She had nothing at all to do with this sudden excess of time—no interests, no hobbies, no one to call upon, no job.
And now here suddenly was this latter, informing her that she did at least have a family. They were people she did not know, to be sure, and their behavior regarding her mother’s death was peculiar to the point of bordering upon rudeness; but they were family nonetheless. What was even more important, they wanted her with them.
In the same moment, Jennifer realized what was an astonishing, even frightening fact. She missed her mother. After years of coolness, silence, even resentment, she suddenly wished that the house were again filled with that strong presence. For the first time she saw that it took two people to make any kind of relationship, even that of mistress and slave. Now she wanted someone to order her about, tell her what to do, occupy her time.
Her tea had grown cold. She carried it with her as she returned to the living room and seated herself at the desk there. She took a note, paper, and a pen from the drawer, and began to write in a neat, precise style.
“...I will very much enjoy an opportunity to visit with you at Kelsey. I will expect to arrive Thursday next, probably in the evening....”
She finished the note, reading it over several times before putting it in its envelope, and took it directly to the post office for mailing.
CHAPTER TWO
Jennifer leaned one shoulder against the door of her car and sighed wearily. Would there be no end to this day?
“Nope, no Kelsey place around here,” the man outside the car window repeated for what seemed to her the hundredth time. She stared through the half opened glass at him impatiently, sniffing mentally at the stubble of gray beard and the blackened teeth that dominated his withered face.
If he says that one more time, I shall scream, she told herself, her customary patience wearing thinner with each passing moment. She took the letter from her purse, removing the folded sheet from its envelope.
“My aunt says that their home is here, near Hard Castle, and I’m sure she must know where she lives.” Despite her annoyance, her voice sounded as calm as ever; it was the tone of voice one would use to address a stubborn child.
“And besides,” she added, all but waving the envelope under his nose, “it’s postmarked from Hard Castle.”
“Ain’t no Kelsey place around here.”
It was like listening to a broken record. For a moment she considered her resolution to scream. Instead, she sighed despairingly and replaced the letter carefully in her purse. Turning the ignition key, she put the car in gear and, scarcely waiting for him to step back from the way, she drove angrily from the service station.
“Blast,” she said aloud to no one. The letter from Aunt Christine had been so explicit in its direction for the drive, until it got her to Hard Castle. Why on earth should the instructions have petered out so weakly at this stage in the journey?
“Take Bellen Road off of Peters Road.” That was all the letter said. There was nothing as to where Peters Road was in relation to Hard Castle, nor how far she went in what direction. A
nd that old fool at the station had not only never heard of either road but he had insisted on contributing to her annoyance by telling her that the Kelseys did not live anywhere near here. For all she knew, the road she was looking for could be two states away, and in the opposite direction.
She chastised herself for being so irritable. In the past, she had controlled her emotions better. It was difficult for her to adjust to the fact that now she could not only feel what she wished, but she could express those feelings if she wished.
“Heavens,” she thought aloud, “I sound as if I’m happy my mother’s gone.”
Her thoughts went back to the night of her mother’s death; what was it about that night? Something about it haunted her, lingering just below the surface of her consciousness. Something that had happened, something perhaps that she had dreamed. Try though she might, however, she could not bring the thought to the level of consciousness.
Suddenly cross with herself for having pursued such thinking, she forced her attention to the present. The sun was sinking ever lower toward the horizon. She scanned the sides of the road, but there was nothing in sight. At the present rate, she might very well think of spending the night someplace, and there was no sign of a motel.
It had seemed, from Aunt Christine’s directions, a simple enough drive, and she had few reservations about making the trip by herself, although she had never before traveled alone. She had been careful also to schedule her departure so that, she had thought, she would arrive at Hard Castle the same day. She did not like traveling at night, particularly in what was now proving to be rather unpopulated country.
Almost on cue, she saw a sign for Peters Road. She hit the brake, bringing the car to a stop just beyond the turn-off. Slowly and none too confidently, she backed the car up and made the turn on Peters Road.
It’s no wonder, she thought, that the man at the service station never heard of this road.
The road was little used, if its present state of repair were any indication. Large chuckholes forced her to keep her speed to a crawl. Small stones banged against the underside of the car. Increasingly ill at ease, she glanced again to the side of the road, allowing the car to run straight through a particularly bad chuckhole.
Hands shaking, she brought the car to a stop. It was an older model car, one her mother had purchased new many years before. Without knowing much about automobiles, Jennifer nevertheless suspected that this one would not long endure the treatment it was getting on this road.
For a moment she considered returning to Hard Castle for the night and making her way to Kelsey House in the morning. The road, which had thus far offered no sign of habitation, was lined on either side by dense woods. The tall trees and the rapidly fading sunlight left her in a dark gloom. The thought of driving this road after sundown was anything but pleasant.
She looked along the road again. Scarcely more than one lane, it did not even afford room for her to turn the car around. In order to return the way she had come, she would first have to continue on at least until she found a driveway or a lane, or even a wide spot.
Jennifer started off again slowly. Her uneasiness grew as the woods crept by on either side of her car, offering no relief. By now the sun had disappeared behind the tops of the trees and she was obliged to flick on the headlights in order to see where she was going. In their dim glare she nearly missed a narrow lane that cut into the woods on her right.
With a sigh of relief, she turned the car into it and shifted into reverse. She was backed halfway around before the headlights picked up the sign, all but covered over with brush, that identified Bellen Road.
She hesitated, half on and half off the road. The drive back into Hard Castle would be an arduous one in the dark. What’s more, there was no assurance of finding a place to stay once she reached the town. Hard Castle seemed to consist of little more than a main street. A general store and the service station at which she had stopped earlier were the only visible business establishments in the town. Certainly she had seen nothing even resembling a motel.
She was tired and she was hungry, and there was no assurance that Hard Castle could provide relief for either need. On the other hand, the drive on to Kelsey House surely could not be any more difficult than retracing her route, and there at least she was assured of dinner and some degree of hospitality.
Gritting her teeth, she shifted the gears again and turned onto Bellen Road. At least, she comforted herself, this road seemed to be an improvement over the one she had been traveling on previously. This was as narrow, true, and nothing more than dirt, but at least the dirt was solidly packed. In comparison to the last hour of driving, it seemed quite smooth.
She was able to drive faster now, watching to the sides of the road for some sign of a house, although as yet she had seen none.
The daylight was completely gone by this time. The twin beams of the headlights offered the only break in the blackness that surrounded the car. Jennifer’s back had begun to ache from the unaccustomed driving, and her eyes were feeling the strain of staring steadily through the windshield. She gripped the wheel tensely as she steered the car around a curve that appeared before her. As she did so, the lights reflected back to her from the road ahead.
The seconds that it took for her to comprehend the meaning of that phenomenon cost her the distance in which she might have been able to stop the car. She had scarcely gotten her foot to the brake pedal before she hit the stream. A sheet of water dashed across the windshield, blinding her completely. Seized by panic, she felt the car slide out of control before it shuddered to a stop in the center of the stream.
For a long time she could only sit motionless, clenching the steering wheel tightly in her hands, and trembling. At last she said aloud, “Of all the fool things. You’d think they’d have heard of bridges, even here.”
The sound of a voice, even her own, restored her to some semblance of calm. She pressed on the accelerator, and realized for the first time that the motor had stopped. Her attempt to start it again produced nothing more than a sputter and a whine. With each successive attempt, the whine grew fainter, descending in pitch. Finally, her efforts caused nothing but a clicking noise, and she realized that the battery was dead.
CHAPTER THREE
For a full moment she fought off the urge to throw her face into her hands and cry.
“Hysteria isn’t going to get me anywhere,” she insisted to herself, at the same time admitting that she was not sure just what was going to get her anywhere—certainly not her car. Cautiously she opened her door and peered out. The water was not very deep. At least she would not be trapped in her car, where she would have to wait for days to be rescued.
Just what was she to do, though? The business of making decisions was a new one for her, and one that she was not finding to her liking. In the past, her mother would have told her just what she should do, and probably it would have been exactly right for coping with the situation. It would certainly be easier if her mother were in the car just now to take charge.
“Well, she isn’t here,” she told herself angrily. Her annoyance with herself added to her annoyance with the journey and the irritation of finding herself stranded in the middle of a stream. With a determination fired by anger, she slipped off the low shoes she had worn for driving, dropping them into the oversize handbag beside her on the seat.
The water was icy cold on her bare foot, causing her to shudder involuntarily. With stubborn resolution, she grabbed her purse and slid off the seat, standing almost knee deep in the cold water. But despite its depth at this point, the water was slow-moving, and she was in no danger at all of being swept away in the current. She lifted her skirt and waded to the opposite side of the creek, nearly falling when she stepped on a slippery rock. She paused on the bank to put her shoes on and contemplate her predicament.
There was nothing for it but to leave the car and her luggage and start walking. Heaven alone knew how far she would have to walk before finding Kelsey House, or
any other house for that matter. In the morning there would be time enough to worry about the car and her luggage. Surely there would be someone at Kelsey House to retrieve them for her.
She started stubbornly down the road. Without the comforting beams of the car’s headlights, the road seemed darker. She found herself frighteningly aware of its narrowness and of the tall trees towering over her on either side, like threatening sentinels. The air was filled with the sweet scent of pine and sage and juniper. What had seemed at first to be silence was not silence after all, but a sighing of leaves and branches in the breeze, and the whisper of birds overhead. There was another sound too, a faint rustling in the underbrush that might have been the breeze again, or that might have been someone moving stealthily through the woods beside her.
She walked carefully down the middle of the road, casting frequent glances about. She remembered the stories she had read as a child, stories of roving bandits who hid in the forests and leapt out to accost unwary travelers.
“There aren’t any roving bandits these days,” she reminded herself aloud, without in the slightest allaying her fears. One could hardly live in the world today without being aware that there were all kinds of people just waiting to do horrible things. And for all she knew, in a place so forlorn and isolated as this, where they did not even know enough to put bridges across streams, there might just still be roving bandits.
The road sloped uphill, leveling off just before it disappeared around another curve. She reached the flat ground again and began to walk more swiftly. The determination that had carried her away from the car had been more than anything else a product of her anger. As her distance from the relative comfort of the car increased, she found both her anger and determination waning.
She was halfway around the curve when she saw the man standing in front of her, a short distance down the road. She stopped dead in her tracks, fighting the temptation to turn and run. There could be no doubt of it, he had seen her; he was, in fact, watching her.
