by V. J. Banis
No, she amended her thoughts, this was not the first locked door she had found. There had been one that other morning she had gotten lost in the house, a door that had seemed to lock itself. And she had thought there was someone beyond that door too; she was convinced of it now.
The truth came to her suddenly. She had found what she had been seeking, the kitchen; that was why this room, of all the rooms in the house, was locked to her. She was at the kitchen door and someone was on the other side of this door, waiting for her to leave. Perhaps it was the person who did the cooking. Perhaps it was more than one person. She saw again the big oak table she had imagined earlier, saw the family sitting about it, food before them, their forks poised en route to their mouths. They sat with eyes turned in this direction, saying nothing, listening.
With stubborn courage she raised one fist and knocked loudly on the door. There was no response.
“Open this door,” she demanded, desperation giving her unusual bravado. They were not going to fool her by merely pretending they were not there. She would get through this door if she had to break it down.
Whoever was beyond the door coughed again.
“What gall!” she thought. They were not even trying to keep their presence a secret now. More than likely they were all there, the whole family, beyond this door, and they were laughing at her, laughing at her desperate demands.
With rising anger and frustration she pounded again, first with one fist and then with the other, and then with both of them as her emotions overcame her and she began to sob.
“Please, please, let me in,” she cried, sinking to her knees before the oak door. She was so weak from hunger, and so miserable, even her reason seemed to be escaping her.
No, no it wasn’t only the hunger, or the events that had taken place, or her unhappiness. She had grown cold, frightfully cold, and so weak that she could scarcely lift her hands to the door, let alone pound on its surface. And her mind was indeed slipping away from her, it seemed as if she could feel it go, moving out of her, into time and infinite space.
“This is insane,” she told herself, shaking her head as if to clear the clouds from her consciousness. “I’ve never felt like this before.”
In terror she tried to stand, or to scream, and she was suddenly aware that she was fainting, aware of the blackness rushing in upon her. Her last memory was of a sound, the sound of metal against metal. The sound of a key turning in a lock.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was night and she was there again, the woman in the white robe, the woman with the long dark hair. She hovered over the bed, bending down to peer at closer range. Jennifer tried to be frightened. She knew she should be frightened, but she felt nothing. Her mind and her senses failed to function at her command. She remembered wondering idly if they were going to kill her in her bed. How easy that would be for them, much easier and faster than what they were doing. She could not stop them. She would not even try.
She felt the same awesome chill that she had felt when she fainted. Perhaps, she thought, I’m dead already. Perhaps I have been dead for a long time. How would she know?
There it was again, her name. She heard her name being called. The night of her mother’s death came back to her then, fleetingly and grimly.
“Jennifer.” The name, pleading and faint
“Aunt Lydia....” The voice was Aunt Christine’s. No, not Aunt Christine’s at all, but another voice, familiar. She tried to focus her attention on that voice. “Aunt Lydia...Aunt Lydia has....”
And then it was morning, and she was awake, and the nightmares had gone. She was in her bed, in her room with the faded wallpaper and the velvet drapes. For a moment she did not know how she had come to be here. Then her memory came back, in little patches, like clouds scudding before the wind. Her journey through the house, the broken thread, the door. And her fainting.
Someone had brought her here, had undressed her and put her to bed. But who? Certainly not any of the women, nor Mr. Kelsey, frail old thing that he was. But Mr. Kelsey was the only man in the house with the exception of Wilfred, the hired man.
No, not a hired man, she reminded herself, but Aunt Abbie’s husband. For an instant she imagined his eyes, brutal and cold, staring into hers. She shuddered at the possibility that he might have put her to bed, and quickly forced the thought from her mind.
She turned her head, looking about the room. She was surprised to see Aunt Abbie there, at the dresser again, fumbling with the air about the empty flower vase. She looked up as if she knew Jennifer was now looking in her direction, and smiled brightly.
“Good morning,” she said. She sounded quite cheerful; just as if, Jennifer thought, just as if it were really a good morning. As though nothing at all out of the ordinary were happening.
Or was it, she asked herself, out of the ordinary? Ordinary for whom?
I am losing my mind, she thought.
“Have you ever seen such beautiful colors in roses?” Aunt Abbie asked, seemingly unaware of the fact that Jennifer had failed to return her greeting. Or perhaps, Jennifer thought, she thought she had heard a greeting. She saw things that were not there; why not hear things that weren’t ever said.
Jennifer stared in silence at the older woman. It was clear that Aunt Abbie thought there were roses in the vase, roses she had brought from her own garden. They were as plain to Aunt Abbie as the food that they served for their meals, the food that wasn’t there.
But if that were the case, perhaps the food was not a joke, or a plot to starve her to death, or drive her crazy. Perhaps they really saw it. Perhaps it was really there.
In which case, they have driven me crazy, Jennifer thought It was a maddening circle that closed in upon her with each passing second.
“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes,” Aunt Abbie informed her. She smiled again and went out.
Jennifer raised one hand weakly to her forehead. Her face felt warm to the touch; she had a fever. It was no wonder, with all she had been through, and with the lack of food. How long had it been since she had eaten anything? She couldn’t even remember. Even her memory seemed to be failing her. And it was entirely possible she had caught something, a cold, or even pneumonia. She was not a strong person. She had always been highly susceptible to things; her mother had told her that. Weak as she was, she would never survive getting sick now. Even a simple cold would probably be too much for her weakened condition.
But what could she do? Marcella had been her best hope, and she now believed that Marcella was as strange as the rest. Even granting that the child meant well by her, she was too frightened to help her escape. What else could she do? Who could she turn to for help?
There was still Wilfred, Aunt Abbie’s husband. He was different from the others, in some way she could not yet understand. He was apart from them. He took no part in any of the activities about the house, at least so far as she could see. She had never seen him at any of those charade meals in the dining room. He had in fact rescued her twice, in a manner of speaking. Perhaps she should try to enlist his aid again.
But he was not really much of a possibility. From the way he looked at her, he would as soon see her dead.
“If I had food,” she said again, “I might be able to escape.” Even wandering through the woods for a time now seemed preferable to staying here. Sooner or later she must surely come to a road or another house, or some sign of life.
But without food she would not last out a night in her present condition. She should have left before, risked that escape without food, before she got so terribly weak. Now it seemed hopeless. What if she fainted, as she had done the night before?
That scene came back to her. The locked door, and the presence beyond it, waiting, listening. And later, in her room, the figure bending over her, the dark haired visitor who came to her room.
The memory sent a shiver through her. That at least she would find a means to stop. She might well be a prisoner here; indeed, at this juncture she co
uld hardly consider herself anything else. But she would not have anyone in this house hovering over her while she slept.
She slept again after that. It was afternoon when she awoke once more, and her fever had grown worse. She was unquestionably sick and getting sicker.
“I am going to die in this house,” she thought in numb horror. “I am going to die here, in this dirty bed, in this gruesome room and no one will ever know.”
She remembered then that there was no one who should know anyway, no one even to be informed. She had no friends, no relatives, except for the people in this house with her, no one who would care one way or another.
She sat up in the bed, reaching toward the floor where she had left her purse at nights. Instead of the cool smoothness of the leather purse, her fingers touched the rough wood surface of the floor. She moved her hand about groping along the floor for the purse.
She stood up, looking about the room frantically. Her purse was gone.
That meant everything she had was gone too. Her keys to the car, her money. It wasn’t her money, though, that they had wanted. She would happily have given that to them. There had not been much of it, and furthermore they could have just taken it from the purse, at any of several opportunities. The keys were more logical, the keys to her car. Perhaps they meant to steal the car and sell it somewhere.
No, not sell it. But it was a way of insuring that she remained here without any means of escape. There was always the possibility she might find her way back to the car; but without her keys, that would do her no good.
Still, they could have as easily just taken the keys from her purse. No, it was something more than the keys or the money.
She thought she understood after a moment. The purse had been the only thing she had with her. Aside from the filthy, torn suit she wore, it was her only link to the world of the past the life she had known before Kelsey House. It was, in a frightening sense, her. Her total identity. It was her memory, her past. Her life.
It was the final evidence of her separateness from them. And it was gone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The discovery that her purse was missing made her angry again, and with anger came a renewing of her strength. She had had enough. She meant to confront her Aunt Christine and flatly demand that she be allowed to leave Kelsey House. She had been robbed and frightened and humiliated and starved, and no one, not even a madwoman, could expect her to remain.
At least she had her suit left. It was still there, in the armoire, where she usually hung it. At least whoever had put her to bed last night (and she did not want to think about that) had not thought to steal her clothing. Although there on the bed was that silly white robe they wanted her to wear. On that point she would be firm. If it meant sleeping in her suit, they would not get it away from her; and she would not, under any circumstances, wear that robe.
Not, she thought bitterly when she had donned it, that it could be called presentable. It was filthy and torn and horribly wrinkled. The very sight of it on herself filled her with disgust
She was, in fact, as filthy herself as the suit was. She had never thought before how essential cleanliness was to a sense of well-being, nor how demoralizing dirt could be.
She used a corner of the sheet to try to rub some of the dirt from her face; the result was a grotesque streaking of the dust that made her look as if she were made up for some tasteless masquerade. Her comb and makeup were in her purse, so that she could do nothing more than brush her hair back with her fingers. The efforts were rather pathetically wasted. When she was done she looked at her reflection in the mirror.
I look a fright, she thought with a grimace. It is difficult to be authoritative when you look like a street urchin. But there was nothing more she could do; she left her room.
Marcella was just coming up the stairs, bearing the familiar gleaming tray. “I was bringing your breakfast up to you,” she greeted her, stopping in front of Jennifer. “You missed that and lunch too. I hope you’re feeling better than you were.”
Jennifer stared hard at the lid on the tray, fighting the temptation to lift it and look inside. Marcella looked so sweet and friendly; and Jennifer almost thought she could smell the aroma of warm food drifting to her nostrils. It smelled like bacon, crisp from the frying, and eggs.
She swallowed, and fought back the impulse. That was futile, she knew only too well. Her senses were playing tricks on her, with smells of bacon and eggs. Her own mind could no longer be trusted. The dishes would be as empty as they had been before, and she would only be that more demoralized for having believed once again.
Instead, she asked, “Where will I find Aunt Christine?”
“In her room,” Marcella answered simply.
“Where on earth is her room?” Jennifer demanded, frightened even at the thought of another search through this house.
Marcella nodded her head toward the hall behind her. “It’s the room next to yours.”
“Thank you,” Jennifer said, turning and starting back down the hall.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marcella called after her.
Jennifer came to a stop, clenching her hands into fists. I am going to take that tray, she thought savagely, and...she left the thought unfinished and took a deep breath. No temper. Remain calm. She mustn’t lose her head again, she must remain calm and in full control of herself. And anyway, losing her temper and screaming at Marcella would tire her further, and that she especially could not afford. She must conserve her strength. Somehow she would escape, and she would need all of her strength. It was precious little as it was; she could not risk wasting any of it.
She went on her way, calmer again. She little cared whether Marcella followed her or not but she glanced back once to see that the girl had started back down the stairs with the tray.
“At least now they know I’m not going to go along with that nonsense anymore,” she told herself. She passed by her own door and paused outside the one next to it. She raised her hand to knock, and hesitated.
There were voices inside the room. She couldn’t tell through the heavy door what was being said, but there was more than one voice. Aunt Christine was not alone. There was someone with her, and they were talking; maybe even talking about her.
She leaned closer, finally pressing herself against the door, trying to hear. Two voices, that she was sure of, and both of them belonging to women.
“...her food,” one of them said. The other said something in reply that included the word, “Jennifer.”
They were talking about her, and about food! Jennifer pressed closer against the door, trying to hear, but the words remained muffled and indistinct.
She thought of the keyhole then, and quickly knelt. She put her eye to it but the scene she saw within was too limited—nothing more than a corner of a writing table, and a fragment of what looked like a chair.
Nor was she able to hear very much better through the keyhole. She caught her name again, and after a bit a reference to Marcella.
She stiffened, sure that they were discussing her conversation on the lawn with Marcella. They did know, then, that she was trying to escape, and had begged Marcella for aid; had suggested, in fact, that Marcella come with her.
If only they would raise their voices.
Uncomfortable in her kneeling position, she put her hand out to brace herself. It brushed the doorknob, which rattled. At once the voices within grew silent
Jennifer jumped quickly to her feet watching the door and expecting it to open. But there was only silence that went on until she grew uneasy.
At last unable to remain inactive, she knocked at the door. At once Aunt Christine’s voice called out: “Who is it?”
“It’s Jennifer,” she called back, a little louder than should have been necessary. “I want to come in.”
“Why, by all means. The door is unlocked.”
The door was indeed unlocked. Jennifer came in, to find Aunt Christine seated on a small rocker before a tea table. On
the table a silver tea service glittered brightly. Across the table from Aunt Christine was a small divan, but it was empty. Aunt Christine was alone in the room.
Jennifer looked slowly about the room, confirming the fact. There was only the one door, the one through which she had come, and there was no one else present in this room.
She walked slowly to the tea table, looking down at the service. Yes, there were two cups of tea poured. There was one directly in front of Aunt Christine, and across the table from her, in front of the divan, was another cup, half-empty. As she seated herself at the divan, Jennifer let her hand brush the cup ever so slightly. The cup was still warm. Someone had been here, had finished half a cup of tea, had been talking with Aunt Christine not more than a minute before; and was not here now.
Or was hiding she added. She glanced about again. The room did not afford too many places to conceal oneself; under the bed perhaps, or in the armoire.
Or perhaps Aunt Christine customarily drank two cups of tea at a time and talked to herself while she did so. It was peculiar, but not really any more peculiar than a great many other things about the place.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” Aunt Christine was saying. “You gave us a fright, you know, fainting the way you did.”
“I haven’t been sleeping well,” Jennifer answered. Now, she was thinking, now is the time to have it out with her. Instead, she said, “Aunt Abbie has been in my room, you know.”
“Yes, she asked if she might bring you some roses in the mornings. She’s so proud of her flowers. I told her it would be all right.”
“Roses? Oh yes, the roses.” Jennifer passed a hand over her eyes. It seemed that there should be something more than this to discuss, but her thoughts were so scattered by this time.
