The Witching Hour

by Anne Rice

  A pause again. The darkness was growing dense; and from far away came the grinding cry of the cicadas. No breeze touched the yard. The house was now full of yellow light, in all its many small neat windows.

  "Yes," said Lily with a sigh. "You might as well know it, my dear." Her eyes fixed on Rowan as she smiled. "He is there. And we've all seen him many a time since, though not perhaps the way we saw him that night, or for so long, or so clearly."

  "You were there, too?" Rowan asked.

  "I was," said Lily. "But it wasn't only then, Rowan. We've seen him on that old screen porch with Deirdre." She looked up at Lauren. "We've seen him when we've passed the house. We've seen him sometimes when we didn't want to."

  "Don't be frightened of him, Rowan," said Lauren contemptuously.

  "Oh, now you tell her that," declared Beatrice. "You superstitious monsters!"

  "Don't let them drive you out of the house," said Magdalene quickly.

  "No, don't let us do that," said Felice. "And you want my advice, forget the legends. Forget the old foolishness about the thirteen witches and the doorway. And forget about him! He's just a ghost, and nothing more, and you may think that sounds strange, but truly it isn't."

  "He can't do anything to you," said Lauren, with a sneer.

  "No, he can't," said Felice. "He's like the breeze."

  "He's a ghost," said Lily. "That's all he is and all he'll ever be."

  "And who knows?" asked Cecilia. "Maybe he's no longer even there."

  They all stared at her.

  "Well, nobody's seen him since Deirdre died."

  A door slammed. There was a tinkling sound, of glass falling, and a commotion on the edge of the circle. People shifted, stepped aside. Gifford pushed her way to the center, her face wet and stained, her hands shaking.

  "Can't do anything! Can't hurt anyone! Is that what you're telling her! Can't do anything! He killed Cortland, that's what he did! After Cortland raped your mother! Did you know that, Rowan!"

  "Hush, Gifford!" Fielding roared.

  "Cortland was your father," Gifford screamed. "The hell he can't do anything! Drive him out, Rowan! Turn your strength on him and drive him out! Exorcise the house! Burn it down if you have to ... Burn it down!"

  A roar of protest came from all directions, and vague expressions of scorn or outrage. Ryan had appeared and was trying once more to restrain Gifford. She turned and slapped his face. Gasps came from all around. Pierce was obviously mortified and helpless.

  Lily rose and left the group, and so did Felice, who almost fell in her haste. Anne Marie struggled to her feet, and helped Felice to get away. But the others stood firm, including Ryan, who simply wiped his face with his handkerchief, as if to regain his composure while Gifford stood with her fists clenched, lips trembling. Beatrice was clearly desperate to help but didn't know what to do.

  Rowan rose and went towards Gifford.

  "Gifford, listen to me," said Rowan. "Don't be afraid. It's the future we care about, not the past." She took Gifford by both arms, and reluctantly Gifford looked up into her face. "I will do what's good," said Rowan, "and what's right, and what's good and right for the family. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Gifford broke into sobs, her head bent again as if her neck were too weak to hold it. Her hair fell down into her eyes. "Only evil people can be happy in that house," she said. "And they were evil--Cortland was evil!" Both Pierce and Ryan had their arms around her. Ryan was becoming angry. But Rowan hadn't let her go.

  "Too much to drink," said Cecilia. Someone had thrown on the yard lights.

  Gifford appeared to collapse suddenly, but still Rowan held her.

  "No, listen to me, please, Gifford," Rowan said, but she was really speaking to the others. She saw Lily standing only a short distance away, and Felice beside her. She saw Beatrice's eyes fixed on her. And Michael was standing, watching her, as he stood behind Fielding's chair.

  "I've been listening to you all," said Rowan, "and learning from you. But I have something to say. The way to survive this strange spirit and his machinations is to see him in a large perspective. Now, the family, and life itself, are part of that perspective. And he must never be allowed to shrink the family or shrink the possibilities of life. If he exists as you say he does, then he belongs in the shadows."

  Randall and Peter were watching her intently. So was Lauren. Aaron stood very near to Michael, and he too was listening. Only Fielding seemed cold, and sneering, and did not look at Rowan. Gifford was staring at her in a daze.

  "I think Mary Beth and Julien knew that," said Rowan. "I mean to follow their example. If something appears to me out of the shadows at First Street, no matter how mysterious it might be, it won't eclipse the greater scheme, the greater light. Surely you follow my meaning."

  Gifford seemed almost spellbound. And very slowly Rowan realized how peculiar this moment had become. She realized how strange her words seemed; and how strange she must have appeared to all of them, making this unusual speech while she held this frail, hysterical woman by both arms.

  Indeed they were all staring at her as if they too had been spellbound.

  Gently she let Gifford go. Gifford stepped backwards, and into Ryan's embrace, but her eyes remained large, empty, and fixed on Rowan.

  "I'm frightening you, aren't I?" asked Rowan.

  "No, no everything is all right now," said Ryan.

  "Yes, everything's fine," said Pierce.

  But Gifford was silent. They were all confused. When Rowan looked at Michael she saw the same dazed expression, and behind it the old dark turbulent distress.

  Beatrice murmured some little apology for all that had happened; she stepped up and led Gifford away. Ryan went with them. And Pierce remained, motionless, struck dumb.

  Lily looked around, apparently confused for a moment, and then called to Hercules to please find her coat.

  Randall, Fielding, and Peter remained in the stillness. Others lingered in the shadows. The little girl with the ribbon stared from a distance, her round sweet young face like a flame in the dark. The taller child, Jenn, appeared to be crying.

  Suddenly Peter clasped Rowan's hand.

  "You're wise in what you said. You'd waste your life if you got caught up in it."

  "That's correct," said Randall. "That's what happened to Stella. Same thing with Carlotta. She wasted her life! Same thing." But he was anxious, and only too ready to withdraw. He turned and slipped off without a farewell.

  "Come on, young man, help me up," said Fielding to Michael. "The party's over, and by the way, my congratulations on the marriage. Maybe I'll live long enough to see the wedding. And please, don't invite the ghost."

  Michael looked disoriented. He glanced at Rowan, and then down at the old man, and then very gently he helped the old man to his feet. Then he looked at Rowan again. The confusion and dread were there as before.

  Several of the young ones approached, to tell Rowan not to be discouraged by all this Mayfair madness. Anne Marie begged her to go on with her plans. A light breeze came at last with just a touch of coolness to it.

  "Everybody will be heartbroken if you don't move into the house," said Margaret Ann.

  "You're not giving it up?" demanded Clancy.

  "Of course not," said Rowan with a smile. "What an absurd idea."

  Aaron stood watching Rowan impassively. And Beatrice came back now with a flood of apologies on behalf of Gifford, begging Rowan not to be upset.

  The others were coming back; they had their raincoats, purses, whatever they had gone to gather. It was full dark now; and the air was cool, deliciously cool. And the party was over.

  For thirty minutes, the cousins said their good-byes, all issuing the same warnings. Stay, don't go. Restore the house. Forget all the old talk.

  And Ryan apologized for Gifford and for the awful things she'd said. Surely Rowan must not take Gifford's words as truth. Rowan waved it away.

  "Thank you, thank you very much for everything," said R
owan. "And don't worry. I wanted to know the old stories. I wanted to know what the family was saying. And now I do."

  "There's no ghost up there," said Ryan, looking her directly in the eye.

  Rowan didn't bother to answer.

  "You're going to be happy at First Street," said Ryan. "You'll change the image." As Michael appeared at her side, he shook Michael's hand.

  Turning to take her leave, Rowan saw that Aaron was at the front gate, talking with Gifford of all people, and Beatrice. Gifford seemed entirely comforted.

  Ryan waited, patiently, a silhouette in the front door.

  "Not to worry about anything at all," Aaron was saying to Gifford, in his seductive British accent.

  Gifford flung her arms around him suddenly. Graciously he returned her embrace and kissed her hand as he withdrew. Beatrice was only slightly less effusive. Then they both stood back, Gifford white-faced and weary-looking, as Aaron's black limousine lumbered to the curb.

  "Don't worry about anything, Rowan," said Beatrice cheerily. "Lunch tomorrow, don't forget. And this shall be the most beautiful wedding!"

  Rowan smiled. "Don't worry, Bea."

  Rowan and Michael slipped into the long backseat, while Aaron took his favorite place, with his back to the driver. And the car slowly pulled away.

  The flood of ice-cold air was a blessing to Rowan. The lingering humidity and the atmosphere of the twilight garden were clinging to her. She closed her eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath.

  When she looked up again, she saw that they were on Metairie Road, speeding past the newer cemeteries of the city which looked grim and without romance through the dark tinted glass. The world always looked so ghastly through the tinted windows of a limousine, she thought. The worst shade of darkness imaginable. Suddenly it pierced her nerves.

  She turned to Michael, and seeing that awful expression on his face again, she felt impatient. She had only been excited by what she had found out. Her resolves were the same. In fact, she had found the whole experience fascinating.

  "Things haven't changed," she said. "Sooner or later he'll come, he'll wrestle with me for what he wants, and he'll lose. All we did was get more information about the number and the door, and that's what we wanted." Michael didn't answer her. "But nothing's changed," she insisted. "Nothing at all."

  Still Michael didn't respond.

  "Don't brood on it," Rowan said sharply. "You can be certain I'll never bring together any coven of thirteen witches. I have much more important things to do than that. And I didn't mean to frighten anybody back there. I think I said the wrong thing. I think I used the wrong words."

  "They misunderstand," said Michael in a half murmur. He was staring at Aaron, who sat impassively watching them both. And she could tell by Michael's voice that he was extremely upset.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nobody has to gather thirteen witches," said Michael, his blue eyes catching the light of the. passing cars as he looked at her. "That wasn't the point of the riddle. They misunderstood because they don't know their own history."

  "What are you talking about?"

  She had never seen him so anxious since the day he'd smashed the jars. She knew if she took hold of his wrist, she'd feel his pulse racing again. She hated this. She could see the blood pumping in his face.

  "Michael, for Christ's sake!"

  "Rowan, count your ancestors! The thing has waited for thirteen witches, from the time of Suzanne to the present, and you are the thirteenth. Count them. Suzanne, Deborah, and Charlotte; Jeanne Louise, Angelique, and Marie Claudette; followed in Louisiana by Marguerite, Katherine, and Mary Beth. Then come Stella, Antha, Deirdre. And finally you, Rowan! The thirteenth is simply the strongest, Rowan, the one who can be the doorway for this thing to come through. You are the doorway, Rowan. That is why there were twelve crypts, and not thirteen, in the tomb. The thirteenth is the doorway."

  "All right," she said, straining for patience. She put up her hands in a gentle plea. "And we knew this before, didn't we? And so the devil predicted it. The devil sees far, as he said to you, he sees the thirteen. But the devil doesn't see everything. He doesn't see who I am."

  "No, those weren't his words," said Michael. "He said that he sees to the finish! And he also said that I couldn't stop you, and I couldn't stop him. His said his patience was like the patience of the Almighty."

  "Michael," Aaron interrupted. "This being has no obligation to speak the truth to you! Don't fall into this trap. It plays with words. It's a liar."

  "I know, Aaron. The devil lies. I know! I heard it from the time I was that high. But God, what is he waiting for? Why are we being allowed to go along day after day, while he bides his time? It's driving me crazy."

  Rowan reached for his wrist, but as soon as he realized she was feeling his pulse he pulled away. "When I need a doctor, I'll tell you, OK?"

  She was stung, and drew back, turning away from him. She was angry with herself that she couldn't be patient. She hated it that he was this upset. And she hated herself for being anguished and afraid.

  It crossed her mind that every time he responded in this way, he played into the hands of the unseen forces that were striving to control them, that maybe they had picked him for their games because he was so easily controlled. But it would be awful to say such a thing to him. It would insult him and hurt him and she couldn't stand to see him hurt. She couldn't stand to see him weakened.

  She sat defeated, looking down at her hands resting limp in her lap. And the spirit had said, "I shall be flesh when you are dead." She could all but hear Michael's heart pounding. Even though his head was turned away from her, she knew he was feeling dizzy, even sick. When you are dead. Her sixth sense had told her he was sound, strong, as vigorous as a man half his age, but there it was again, the unmistakable symptoms of enormous stress, playing havoc with him.

  God, how awful it had turned out, the whole experience. How terribly the secrets of the past had poisoned the whole affair. Not what she wanted, no, the very opposite. Maybe it would have been better if they had said nothing at all. If Gifford had had her way and they had gone on in their airy sunlighted dream, talking of the house and the wedding.

  "Michael," said Aaron in his characteristically calm voice. "He taunts and he lies. What right has he to prophesy? And what purpose could he have other than to try through his lies to make his prophecies come true?"

  "Where the hell is he?" demanded Michael. "Aaron, maybe I'm grasping at straws. But that first night when I went to the house, would he have spoken to me if you hadn't been there? Why did he show himself only to vanish like so much smoke?"

  "Michael, I could give you several explanations for every single appearance he has made. But I don't know that I'm right. The important thing is to maintain a sane course, to realize he's a trickster."

  "Exactly," said Rowan.

  "God, what kind of a game is it?" whispered Michael. "They give me everything I ever wanted--the woman I love, my home again, the house I dreamed of when I was a little boy. We want to have a child, me and Rowan! What kind of a game is it? He speaks and the others who came to me are silent. God, if only I could lose the feeling that it's all planned, like Townsend said in your dream, all planned. But who's planning it?"

  "Michael, you've got to get a grip on yourself," Rowan said. "Everything is going beautifully, and we are the ones who made it that way. It has gone beautifully since the day after the old woman died. You know, there are times when I think I'm doing what my mother would have wanted. Does that sound crazy? I think I'm doing what Deirdre dreamed of all those years."

  No answer.

  "Michael, didn't you hear what I said to the others?" she asked. "Don't you believe in me?"

  "Just promise me this, Rowan," he said. He grabbed her hand and slipped his fingers between hers. "Promise me if you see that thing, you won't keep it secret. You'll tell me. You won't keep it back."

  "God, Michael, you're acting like a jealous husband."

>   "Do you know what that old man said?" Michael asked. "When I helped him to the car?"

  "You're talking about Fielding?"

  "Yeah. This is what he said. 'Be careful, young man.' What the hell did he mean by that?"

  "The hell with him for saying that," she whispered. She was suddenly in a rage. She pulled her hand free from Michael. "Who the hell does he think he is, the old bastard! How dare he say that to you. He doesn't come to our wedding. He doesn't come through the front gate--" She stopped, choking on the words. The anger was too bitter. Her trust in the family had been so total, she'd been just lapping it all up, the love, and now she felt as if Fielding had stabbed her, and she was crying again, goddamn it, and she didn't have a handkerchief. She felt like ... like slapping Michael. But it was that old man she'd like to belt. How dare he?

  Michael tried to take her hand again. She pushed him away. For a moment, she was so angry, she couldn't think at all. And she was furious that she was crying.

  "Here, Rowan, please," Aaron said. He put his handkerchief into her hand.

  She was barely able to whisper thank you. She used the handkerchief to cover her eyes.

  "I'm sorry, Rowan," Michael whispered.

  "The hell with you too, Michael!" she said. "You'd better stand up to them. You'd better stop spinning like a goddamned top every time another piece of the puzzle falls into place! It wasn't the Blessed Virgin Mary you saw out there in your visions! It was just them and all their tricks."

  "No, that's not true."

  He sounded sad and contrite, and really raw. It broke her heart to hear it, but she wouldn't give in. She was afraid to say what she really thought--Listen, I love you, but did it ever occur to you that your role in this was only to see that I returned, that I remained, and that I have a child to inherit the legacy? This spirit could have staged your drowning, your rescue, the visions, the whole thing. And that was why Arthur Langtry came to you, that was why he warned you to get away before it was too late.

  She sat there holding it in, poisoned by it, and hoping it wasn't true, and afraid.

  "Please, don't go on with this," Aaron said gently. "The old man was a little bit of a fool, Rowan." His voice was like soothing music, drawing the tension out of her. "Fielding wanted to feel important. It was a boasting match among the three of them--Randall, Peter, and Fielding. Don't be harsh with him. He's simply ... too old. Believe me, I know. I'm almost there myself."