The Witching Hour

by Anne Rice

  Twelve crypts, the keyhole door, and then that coffin sliding in, blam! And his eyes moving up to that keyhole door again, which did look exactly like the doors in the house, but why? And then they were all going, with a quick exchange of pleasantries, for the Mayfairs assumed he and Aaron were there for the ceremony and expressed their appreciation before they went away.

  "Come have a beer with me sometime," said Jerry.

  "Best to Rita."

  The cemetery had dropped into a buzzing, dizzying silence. Not a single thing he had seen since the beginning of this odyssey, not even the images from the jars, had filled him with as much dread as the sight of this tomb. "There's the thirteen," he had said to Aaron.

  "But they have buried so many in those crypts," Aaron had explained. "You know how it's done."

  "It's a pattern," he'd murmured halfheartedly, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Look at it, twelve crypts and a doorway. It's a pattern, I tell you. I knew the number and the door were connected. I just don't know what they mean."

  Later that afternoon waiting for Rowan, while Aaron typed away on his computer in the front room, presumably on the Mayfair history, Michael had drawn the doorway in his notebook. He hated it. He hated the empty middle of it, for that's what it had been in the bas-relief, not a door, but a doorway.

  "And I've seen that doorway somewhere else, in some other representation," he wrote. "But I don't know where."

  He had hated even thinking about it. Even the thing trying to be human had not filled him with such apprehension.

  But over supper, on the patio at Oak Haven, with the ashen twilight surrounding them and the candles flickering in their glass shades, they had resolved again to spend no more time poring over interpretations. They would move forward as they said. He and Rowan had spent the night in the front bedroom of the plantation, a lovely change from the hotel, and in the morning when he woke up at six, with the sun beating on his face, Rowan was already on the gallery, enjoying her second pot of coffee, and raring to go.

  As soon as he arrived back in New Orleans, at nine o'clock, the work began.

  He had never had so much fun.

  He rented a car and roamed the city, taking down the names of the construction crews who were working on the finest of the uptown houses and the classy restorations going on in the Quarter downtown. He got out and talked to the bosses and the men; sometimes he went inside with the more talkative people who were willing to show him their work in progress, discussing the local wage scales and expectations, and asking for the names of carpenters and painters who needed work.

  He called the local architectural firms who were famous for handling the grand homes, and requested various recommendations. The sheer friendliness of people astonished him. And the mere mention of the Mayfair house kindled excitement. People were only too eager to give advice.

  For all the work that was going on, the city was full of unemployed craftsmen. The oil boom of the 1970s and early 1980s had generated tremendous interest and activity in restoration. And now the city lay under the cloud of the oil depression, with an economy bruised by numerous foreclosures. Money was tight. There were mansions on the market for half of what they were worth.

  By one o'clock he had hired three crews of excellent painters, and a team of the finest plasterers in the city--quadroons descended from the colored families who had been free long before the Civil War, and who had been plastering the ceilings and walls of New Orleans houses for over seven and eight generations.

  He had also signed up two teams of plumbers, one excellent roofing company, and a well-known uptown landscaping expert to begin the clearing and the restoration of the garden. At two P.M. the man walked the property with Michael for half an hour, pointing out the giant camellias and azaleas, the bridal wreath and the antique roses, all of which could be saved.

  Two cleaning women had also been hired--upon recommendation of Beatrice Mayfair--who began the detailed dusting of furniture, the polishing of the silver, and the washing of the china which had lain under its layer of dust for many a year.

  A special crew was scheduled to come in Friday morning to commence draining the pool, and seeing what had to be done to restore it and revamp its antiquated equipment. A kitchen specialist was also scheduled for Friday. Engineers were scheduled to examine the foundation and the porches. And an excellent carpenter and jack-of-all-trades named Dart Henley was eager to become Michael's second in command.

  At five o'clock, while there was still plenty of light, Michael went under the house with a flashlight and a dust mask and confirmed, after forty-five minutes of serious crawling, that indeed the interior walls were chain walls, descending directly to the ground, that the underneath was dry and clean, and that there was ample space for a central air and heat duct system.

  Meantime, Ryan Mayfair came through the house to take the official and legal inventory for the estates of Deirdre and Carlotta Mayfair. A team of young lawyers, including Pierce, Franklin, Isaac, and Wheatfield Mayfair--all descendants of the original brothers of the firm--accompanied a group of appraisers and antique dealers who identified, appraised, and tagged every chandelier, picture, mirror, and fauteuil.

  Priceless French antiques were brought down from the attic, including some fine chairs which needed only reupholstering and tables which required no repair at all. Stella's art deco treasures, equally delicate and equally preserved, were also brought into the light.

  Old oil paintings by the dozens were discovered, as well as rugs rolled in camphor balls, old tapestries, and all the chandeliers from Riverbend, each crated and marked.

  It was after dark when Ryan finished.

  "Well, my dear, I'm happy to report: no more bodies."

  Indeed, a call from him later in the evening confirmed that the enormous inventory was almost the same as the one taken at the death of Antha. Things had not even been moved. "All we did most of the time was check them off the list," he said. Even the count of the gold and jewels was the same. He'd have the inventory for her right away.

  By that time, Michael was back at the hotel, had feasted on delicious room service from the Caribbean Room downstairs, and was perusing all the architecture books he'd gleaned from the local stores, pointing out to Rowan the pictures of the various houses that surrounded hers, and the other mansions scattered throughout the Garden District.

  He had bought a "house" notebook in the K&B drugstore on Louisiana Avenue, and was making lists of what he meant to do. He would have to call tile men early in the morning, and take a more careful look at the old bathrooms, because the fixtures were absolutely marvelous, and he did not want to change what did not need to be changed.

  Rowan was reading over some of the papers she would sign. She had opened a joint account at the Whitney Bank that afternoon just for the renovations, depositing three hundred thousand dollars in it, and she had the signature cards for Michael and a book of checks.

  "You can't spend too much money on this house," she said. "It deserves the best."

  Michael gave a little delighted laugh. This had always been a dream--to do it without a budget, as if it were a great work of art, every decision being made with the purest aims.

  At eight o'clock, Rowan went down to meet Beatrice and Sandra Mayfair for drinks in the bar. She was back within the hour. Tomorrow she would have breakfast with another couple of cousins. It was all rather pleasant and easy. They did the talking. And she liked the sound of their voices. She'd always liked to listen to people, especially when they talked so much that she didn't have to say anything much herself.

  "But I'll tell you," she said to Michael, "they do know things and they aren't telling me what they know. And they know the older ones know things. They're the ones I have to talk to. I have to win their trust."

  On Friday, as the plumbers and the roofers swarmed over the property, and the plasterers went in with their buckets and ladders and drop cloths, and a loud chugging machine began to pump the swimming pool dry, Rowan w
ent downtown to sign papers.

  Michael went to work with the tile men in the front bathroom. It had been decided to fix up the front bath and bedroom first so that he and Rowan could move in as soon as possible. And Rowan wanted a shower without disturbing the old tub. That meant ripping out some tile, and building in more, and fitting the tub with a glass enclosure.

  "Three days we'll have it for you," the workman promised.

  The plasterers were already removing the wallpaper from the bedroom ceiling. The electrician would have to be called in, as the wires to the old brass chandelier had never been properly insulated. And Rowan and Michael would want a ceiling fan in place of the old fixture. More notes.

  Some time around eleven, Michael wandered out on the screened porch off the parlor. Two cleaning women were working noisily and cheerfully in the big room behind him. The decorator recommended by Bea was measuring the windows for new draperies.

  Forgot about these old screens, Michael thought. He made a note in his book. He looked at the old rocker. It had been scrubbed clean, and the porch itself had been swept. The bees hummed in the vines. Through the thick stand of banana trees to the left, he could just see the bright occasional flashes of the workmen surrounding the pool. They were shoveling two feet of earth from off the flagstone patio. Indeed, the area of paving was far larger than anyone had supposed.

  He took a deep breath, staring out at the crepe myrtle across the lawn.

  "No ladders thrown down yet, am I right, Lasher?" His whisper seemed to die on the empty air.

  Nothing but the hum of the bees, and the mingled sounds of the workmen--the low grind of a lawn mower just starting up, and the sound of the diesel leaf blowers navigating the paths. He glanced at his watch. The air-conditioning men were due any minute. He had sketched out a system of eight different heat pumps which would provide both cooling and heating, and the worst problem would be the placement of the equipment, what with the attics filled with boxes and furniture and other items. Maybe they could go directly to the roof.

  Then there were the floors. Yes, he had to get an estimate on the floors right away. The floor of the parlor was still very beautifully finished, apparently from the time Stella had used it as a dance floor. But the other floors were deeply soiled and dull. Of course nobody would do any interior painting or floor finishing until the plasterers were out. They made too much dust. And the painters, he had to go see how they were coming along on the outside. They had to wait until the roofers had sealed the parapet walls at the top. But the painters had plenty of work to do sanding and preparing the window frames and the shutters. And what else? Oh, the phone system, yes, Rowan wanted something state of the art. I mean the house was so big. And then there was the cabana, and that old servants' quarters building way at the back. He was thinking of turning a small contractor loose on that little building now, for an entire renovation.

  Ah, this was fun. But why was he getting away with it? That was the question. Who was biding whose time?

  He didn't want to confess to Rowan that he couldn't shake an underlying apprehensiveness, an underlying certainty that they were being watched. That the house itself was something alive. Maybe it was only the lingering impression of the images in the attic--of all the skirts gathered around him, of all of them earth-bound and here. He didn't really believe in ghosts in that sense. But the place had absorbed the personalities of all the Mayfairs, hadn't it, as old houses are supposed to do. And it seemed every time he turned that he was about to see someone or something that really wasn't there.

  What a surprise to step into the parlor and see only the sunlight and the solemn neglected furniture. The enormous mirrors, towering over the room like guardians. The old pictures lifeless and dim in their frames. For a long moment he looked at the soft portrait of Stella--a painted photograph. So sweet her smile, and her black shining marcelled hair. Out of the corners of her eyes, she looked at him, through the filth that clung to the dim glass.

  "Did you want something, Mr. Mike?" the young cleaning woman asked him. He shook his head.

  He turned back and looked at the empty rocker. Had it moved? This was foolish. He was inviting something to happen. He closed his notebook and went back to work.

  Joseph, the decorator, was waiting for him in the dining room.

  And Eugenia was here. Eugenia wanted to work. Surely there was something she could do. Nobody knew this house the way she did, she'd worked in this house for five years, she had. Eugenia had told her son this very morning that she was not too old to work, that she would work until she dropped dead.

  Did Dr. Mayfair want silk for these draperies? asked the decorator. Was she sure about that? He had a score of damasks and velvets to show her that wouldn't cost half as much.

  When Michael met Rowan for lunch at Mayfair and Mayfair she was still signing. He was surprised at the ease and trust with which Ryan greeted him and began to explain things.

  "It was always the custom before Antha and Deirdre to make bequests at a time such as this," he said, "and Rowan wants to revive the custom. We're making a list now of the Mayfairs who might accept a bequest, and Beatrice is already on the phone to anybody and everybody in the family. Please understand this isn't as insane as it sounds. Most Mayfairs have money in the bank, and always have had. Nevertheless, there are cousins in college, and a couple in medical school, and others who are saving to buy a first home. You know--that sort of thing. I think it's commendable of Rowan to want to revive the custom. And of course considering the size of the estate ... "

  Nevertheless there was something cunning in Ryan, something calculating and watchful. And wasn't that natural? He seemed to be testing Michael with these riffs of information. Michael only nodded, and shrugged. "Sounds great."

  By late afternoon, Michael and Rowan were back at the house conferring with the men around the pool. The stench of the muck that had been dredged from the bottom was unbearable. Shirtless and barefooted, the men carried it away in wheelbarrows. There were no real leaks in the old cement. You could tell because there was no sogginess in the ground anywhere. The foreman told Michael they could have the whole thing patched and replastered by the middle of next week.

  "Sooner if you can," said Rowan. "I don't mind paying you overtime to work this weekend. Bring it back fast. I can't stand the sight of it the way it is now."

  They were glad for the extra paychecks. In fact, just about every workman on the place was happy to work the weekend.

  All new heating and filtering equipment was being installed for the pool. The gas connections were satisfactory. The new electric service was already going in.

  And Michael got on the phone to another painting crew to take care of the cabana. Sure, they'd work Saturday, for time and a half. Wouldn't take much to paint its wooden doors, and refit its shower, lavatory, and small changing rooms.

  "So what color do you want the house to be?" Michael asked. "They'll get to the outside painting faster than you think. And you want the cabana and the garconniere painted the same color, don't you?"

  "Tell me what you want," she said.

  "I'd leave it the violet color it's always been. The dark green shutters go with it just fine. I'd keep the whole scheme, actually--blue for the roofs of the porches, and gray for the porch floors, and black for the cast iron. By the way, I found a little man who can replace the pieces of the iron that are missing. He's already making the molds. He has his own shop back by the river. Did anyone tell you about the iron fence that runs around this property?"

  "Tell me."

  "It's even older than the house. It was the early nineteenth century version of chain link. That is, it was prefab. And it goes all the way down First Street and turns on Camp because that's how big the property once was. Now, we should paint it, just a nice coat of black paint is all it needs, just like the railings ... "

  "Bring in all the crews you need," she said. "The violet color is perfect. And if you have to make a decision without me, make it. Make it loo
k like you think it should look. Spend what you think ought to be spent."

  "You're a contractor's dream, darling," he said. "We're off to a roaring start. Gotta go. See that man who just came out the back door? He's coming to tell me he ran into a problem with the upstairs bathroom walls. I knew he would."

  "Don't work too hard," she said in his ear, her deep velvety voice bringing the chills up on him. A nice little throb of excitement caught him between the legs as she crushed her breasts against his arm. No time for it.

  "Work too hard? I'm just warming up. And let me tell you something else, Rowan. There are a couple of damn near irresistible houses I'd like to tackle in this town when we're through here. I see the future, Rowan. I see Great Expectations with offices on Magazine Street. I could bring those houses back slowly and carefully and ride out the bad market. This house is only the first."

  "How much do you need to pick them up?"

  "Honey, I have the money to do that," he said, kissing her quickly. "I've got plenty of money. Ask your cousin Ryan if you don't believe me. If he hasn't already run a complete credit check on me, I'd be very surprised."

  "Michael, if he says one wrong word to you ... "

  "Rowan, I'm in paradise. Relax!"

  Saturday and Sunday rolled by at the same grand pace. The gardeners worked until after dark mowing down the weeds and digging the old cast-iron furniture out of the brush.

  Rowan and Michael and Aaron set up the old table and chairs in the center of the lawn, and there they had their lunch each day.

  Aaron was making some progress with Julien's books, but they were mostly lists of names, with brief enigmatic statements. No real autobiography at all. "So far, my most unkind guess is that these are lists of successful vendettas." He read a sampling.

  " 'April 4, 1889 Hendrickson paid out as he deserved.'

  " 'May 9, 1889, Carlos paid in kind.'

  " 'June 7, 1889, furious with Wendell for his display of temper last night. Showed him a thing or two. No more worries there.'

  "It goes on like that," said Aaron, "page after page, book after book. Occasionally there are little maps and drawings, and financial notes. But for the most part that's all it is. I'd say there are approximately twenty-two entries per year. I've yet to come upon a coherent full paragraph. No, if the autobiography exists, it's not here."