The Witching Hour

by Anne Rice

  "It is conceivable as well that he has begun a rudimentary process of symbiosis with higher forms of matter, able to attract more complex molecular structures to him when he materializes, which he then effectively dissolves before his own cells are hopelessly bonded with these heavier particles. And this dissolution is accomplished in a state bordering on panic. For he fears an imperfect union, from which he can't be freed.

  "But his love of the flesh is so strong he is willing now to risk anything to be warm-blooded and anthropomorphic."

  Again, she stopped. "Maybe all of life has a mind," she said, her eyes roving over the small room, over the empty tables. "Maybe the flowers watch us. Maybe the trees think and hate us that we can walk. Or maybe, just maybe they don't care. The horror of Lasher is that he began to care!"

  "Stop him," said Aaron. "You know what he is now. Stop him. Don't let him assume human form."

  She said nothing. She looked down at the red wool of her coat, startled suddenly by the color. She did not even remember taking it out of the closet. She had the key in her hand but no purse. Only their conversation was real to her and she was aware of her own exhaustion, of the thin layer of sweat on her hands and on her face.

  "What you've said is brilliant," said Aaron. "You've touched it and understood it. Now use the same knowledge to keep it out."

  "He's going to kill you," she said, not looking at him. "I know he is. He wants to. I can hold him off, but what do I bargain with? He knows I'm here." She gave a little laugh, eyes moving over the ceiling. "He's with us. He knows every trick at my command. He's everywhere. Like God. Only he's not God!"

  "No. He doesn't know everything. Don't let him fool you. Look at the history. He makes too many mistakes. And you have your love to bargain with. Bargain with your will. Besides, why should he kill me? What can I do to him? Persuade you not to help him? Your moral sense is stronger and finer even than mine."

  "What in the world would make you think that?" she said. "What moral sense?" It struck her that she was near to collapse, that she had to get out of here, and go home where she could sleep. But he was there, waiting for her. He would be anywhere she went. And she'd come here for a reason--to warn Aaron. To give Aaron a last chance.

  But it would be so nice to go home, to sleep again, if only she didn't hear that baby crying. She could feel Lasher wrapping his countless arms around her, snuggling her up in airy warmth.

  "Rowan, listen to me."

  She waked as if from a dream.

  "All over the world there are human beings with exceptional powers," Aaron was saying, "but you are one of the rarest because you have found a way to use your power for good. You don't gaze into a crystal ball for dollar bills, Rowan. You heal. Can you bring him into that with you? Or will he take you away from it forever? Will he draw your power off into the creation of some mutant monster that the world does not want and cannot abide? Destroy him, Rowan. For your own sake. Not for mine. Destroy him for what you know is right."

  "This is why he'll kill you, Aaron. I can't stop him if you provoke him. But why is it so wrong? Why are you against it? Why did you lie to me?"

  "I never lied. And you know why it mustn't happen. He would be a thing without a human soul."

  "That's religion, Aaron."

  "Rowan, he would be unnatural. We need no more monsters. We ourselves are monstrous enough."

  "He is as natural as we are," she said. "This is what I've been trying to tell you."

  "He is as alien from us as a giant insect, Rowan. Would you make such a thing as that? It isn't meant to happen."

  "Meant. Is mutation meant? Every second of every minute of every day, cells are mutating."

  "Within limits. Upon a predictable path. A cat cannot fly. A man cannot grow horns. There is a scheme to things, and we can spend our lives studying it and marveling at it, that it is such a magnificent scheme. He is not part of the scheme."

  "So you say, but what if there is no scheme? What if there is just process, just cells multiplying, and his metamorphosis is as natural as a river changing course and devouring farmland and houses and cattle and people? As a comet crashing into the earth?"

  "Would you not try to save human beings from drowning? Would you not try to save them from the comet's fire? All right. Say he is natural. Let us postulate that we are better than natural. We aim for more than mere process. Our morals, our compassion, our capacity to love and to create an orderly society, make us better than nature. He has no reverence for that, Rowan. Look what he has done to the Mayfair family."

  "He created it, Aaron!"

  "No, I can't accept that. I can't."

  "You're still talking religion, Aaron. You're talking an obdurate morality. There is no secure logical ground for condemning him."

  "But there is. There has to be. Pestilence is natural, but you wouldn't let the bacillus out of the tube to destroy millions. Rowan, for the love of God, our consciousness was educated by the flesh from which it evolved. What would we be without the capacity to feel physical pain? And this creature, Lasher, has never bled from the smallest wound. He's never been chastened by hunger or sharpened by the need to survive. He is an immoral intelligence, Rowan, and you know this. You know it. And that is what I call unnatural, for want of a better word."

  "Pretty moral poetry," she said. "You disappoint me. I was hoping you would give me arguments in exchange for my warning. I was hoping you would fortify my soul."

  "You don't need my arguments. Look into your own soul. You know what I'm trying to tell you. He's a laser beam with ambition. He's a bomb that can think for itself. Let him in and the world will pay for it. You will be the mother of a disaster."

  "Disaster," she whispered. "What a lovely word."

  How frail he looked. She was seeing his age for the first time in the heavy lines of his face, in the soft pockets of flesh around his pale, imploring eyes. He seemed so weak to her suddenly, so without his usual eloquence and grace. Just an old man with white hair, peering at her, full of childlike wonder. No lure at all.

  "You know what it could really mean, don't you?" she asked wearily. "When you strip away the fear?"

  "He's lying to you; he's taking over your conscience."

  "Don't say that to me!" she hissed. "That isn't courage on your part, it's stupidity." She settled back trying to calm herself. There had been a time when she loved this man. Even now she didn't want him harmed. "Can't you see the inevitable end of it?" she asked, reasonably. "If the mutation is successful, he can propagate. If the cells can be grafted and replicate themselves in other human bodies, the entire future of the human race can be changed. We are talking about an end to death."

  "The age-old lure," Aaron said bitterly. "The age-old lie."

  She smiled to see his composure stripped away.

  "Your sanctimoniousness tires me," she said. "Science has always been the key. Witches were nothing but scientists, always. Black magic was striving to be science. Mary Shelley saw the future. Poets always see the future. And the kids in the third row of the theater know it when they watch Dr. Frankenstein piece the monster together, and raise the body into the electrical storm."

  "It is a horror story, Rowan. He's mutated your conscience."

  "Don't insult me like that again," she said, leaning once more across the table. "You're old, you don't have many years left. I love you for what you've given me, and I don't want to hurt you. But don't tempt me and don't tempt him. What I'm telling you is the truth."

  He didn't answer her. He had dropped into a baffling state of calm. She found his small hazel eyes suddenly quite unreadable, and she marveled at his strength. It made her smile.

  "Don't you believe what I'm telling you? Don't you want to write it in the file? I saw it in Lemle's laboratory when I saw that fetus connected to all those little tubes. You never knew why I killed Lemle, did you? You knew I did it, but you didn't know the cause. Lemle was in control of a project at the Institute. He was harvesting cells from live fetuses and using
them in transplants. It's going on in other places. You can see the possibilities, but imagine experiments involving Lasher's cells, cells that have endured and transported consciousness for billions of years."

  "I want you to call Michael, to ask Michael to come home."

  "Michael can't stop him. Only I can stop him. Let Michael be where he's out of danger. Do you want Michael to die too?"

  "Listen to me. You can close your mind to this being. You can veil your thoughts from it by a simple act of will. There are techniques as old as the oldest religions on earth for protecting ourselves from demons. It reads in your mind only what you project towards it. It's not different from telepathy. Try and you'll see."

  "And why should I do that?"

  "To give yourself time. To give yourself a safe place for a moral decision."

  "No, you don't understand how powerful he is. You never did. And you don't know how well he knows me. That's the key, what he knows of me." She shook her head. "I don't want to do what he wants," she said. "I really don't. But it's irresistible, don't you see?"

  "What about Michael? What about your dreams of Mayfair Medical?"

  "Ellie was right," she said. She sat back against the wall and gazed off again, the lights of the bar blurring slightly. "Ellie knew. She had Cortland's blood in her and she could see the future. Maybe it was only dim shapes and feelings, but she knew. I should never have come back. He used Michael to see to it that I came back. I knew Michael was in New Orleans, and like a randy bitch, I came back for that reason!"

  "You're not talking the truth. I want you to come upstairs and stay with me."

  "You're such a fool. I could kill you here and now and no one would ever know it. No one but your brotherhood and your friend Michael Curry. And what could they do? It's over, Aaron. I may fight, and I may dance back a few steps, and I may gain an occasional advantage. But it's over. Michael was meant to bring me back and keep me here and he did."

  She started to rise, but he caught her hand. She looked down at his fingers. So old. You can always tell age by a person's hands. Were people staring at them? Didn't matter. Nothing mattered in this little room. She started to pull away.

  "What about your child, Rowan?"

  "Michael told you?"

  "He didn't have to tell me. Michael was sent to love you so that you would drive that thing away, once and forever. So that you wouldn't fight this battle alone."

  "You knew that without being told also?"

  "Yes. And so do you."

  She pulled her hand free.

  "Go away, Aaron. Go far away. Go hide in the Motherhouse in Amsterdam or London. Hide. You're going to die if you don't. And if you call Michael, if you call him back here, I swear, I'll kill you myself."

  Forty-four

  ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING HAD gone wrong. The roof at Liberty Street had been leaking when he arrived and somebody had broken into the Castro Street store for a pitiful handful of cash in the drawer. His Diamond Street property had also been vandalized, and it had taken four days to clean it out before he could put it up for sale. Add to that a week to crate Aunt Viv's antiques, and to pack all her little knickknacks so that nothing would be broken. And he was afraid to trust the movers with these things. Then he'd had to sit down with his accountant for three days to put his tax records in order. December 14 already and there was still so much work to be done.

  About the only good thing was that Aunt Viv had received the first two boxes safely and called to say how delighted she was to have her cherished objects with her at last. Did Michael know she'd joined a sewing circle with Lily, in which they did petit point and listened to Bach? She thought it was the most elegant thing. And now that her furniture was on the way, she could invite all the lovely Mayfair ladies over to her place at last. Michael was a darling. Just a darling.

  "And I saw Rowan on Sunday, Michael, she was taking a walk, in this freezing weather, but do you know she has finally started to put on a little weight. I never wanted to say it before, but she was so thin and so pale. It was wonderful to see her with a real bloom in her cheeks."

  He had to laugh at that, but he missed Rowan unbearably. He had never planned to be gone so long. Every phone call only made it worse, the famous butterscotch voice driving him out of his mind.

  She was understanding about all the unforeseen catastrophes but he could hear the worry behind her questions. And he couldn't sleep after the calls, smoking one cigarette after another, and drinking too much beer, and listening to the endless winter rain.

  San Francisco was in the wet season now, and the rain hadn't stopped since his arrival. No blue skies, not even over the Liberty Street hill, and the wind ripped right through his clothes when he stepped outside. He was wearing his gloves all the time just to keep warm.

  But now at last the old house was almost empty. Nothing but the last two boxes in the attic, and in a strange way, these little treasures were what he had come to retrieve and take with him to New Orleans. And he was eager to finish the job.

  How alien it all looked to him, the rooms smaller than he remembered, and the sidewalks in front so dirty. The tiny pepper tree he'd planted seemed about to give up the ghost. Impossible that he could have spent so many years here telling himself he was happy.

  And impossible that he might have to spend another back-breaking week, taping and labeling boxes at the store, and going through tax receipts, and filling out various forms. Of course he could have the movers do it, but some of the items weren't worth that kind of trouble. And then the sorting was the nightmare, with all the little decisions.

  "It's better now than later," Rowan had said this afternoon when he called. "But I can hardly stand it. Tell me, have you had any second thoughts? I mean about the whole big change? Are there moments when you'd just like to pick up where you left off, as if New Orleans never happened?"

  "Are you crazy? All I think about is coming back to you. I'm getting out of here before Christmas. I don't care what's going on."

  "I love you, Michael." She could say it a thousand times and it always sounded spontaneous. It was an agony not to be able to hold her. But was there a darker note to her voice, something he hadn't heard before?

  "Michael, burn anything that's left. Just make a bonfire in the backyard, for heaven's sakes. Hurry."

  He'd promised her he'd finish in the house by tonight if it killed him.

  "Nothing's happened, has it? I mean you're not scared there, are you, Rowan?"

  "No. I'm not scared. It's the same beautiful house you left. Ryan had a Christmas tree delivered. You ought to see it, it reaches the ceiling. It's just waiting there in the parlor for you and me to decorate it. The smell of the pine needles is all through the house."

  "Ah, that's wonderful. I've got a surprise for you ... for the tree."

  "All I want is you, Michael. Come home."

  Four o'clock. The house was really truly empty now and hollow and full of echoes. He stood in his old bedroom looking out over the dark shiny rooftops, spilling downhill to the Castro district, and beyond, the clustered steel gray skyscrapers of downtown.

  A great city, yes, and how could he not be grateful for all the wonderful things it had given him? A city like no other perhaps. But it wasn't his city anymore. And in a way it never had been.

  Going home.

  But he'd forgotten again. The boxes in the attic, the surprise, the things he wanted most of all.

  Taking the plastic wrapping material and an empty carton with him, he went up the ladder, stooping under the sloped roof, and snapped on the light. Everything clean and dry now that the leak had been patched. And the sky the color of slate beyond the front window. And the four remaining boxes, marked "Christmas" in red ink.

  The tree lights he'd leave for the guys who were renting the place. Surely they could use them.

  But the ornaments he would now carefully repack. He couldn't bear the thought of losing a single one. And to think, the tree was already there.

  Dragging
the box over under the naked overhead bulb, he opened it and discarded the old tissue paper. Over the years he'd collected hundreds of these little porcelain beauties from the specialty shops around town. Now and then he'd sold them himself at Great Expectations. Angels, wise men, tiny houses, carousel horses, and other delicate trinkets of exquisitely painted bisque. Real true Victorian ornaments could not have been more finely fashioned or fragile. There were tiny birds made of real feathers, wooden balls skillfully painted with lavish old roses, china candy canes, and silver-plated stars.

  Memories came back to him of Christmases with Judith and with Elizabeth, and even back to the time when his mother had been alive.

  But mostly he remembered the last few Christmases of his life, alone. He had forced himself to go through with the old rituals. And long after Aunt Viv had gone to bed, he'd sat by the tree, a glass of wine in his hand, wondering where his life was going and why.

  Well, this Christmas would be utterly and completely different. All these exquisite ornaments would now have a purpose, and for the first time there would be a tree large enough to hold the entire collection, and a grand and wonderful setting in which they truly belonged.

  Slowly he began work, removing each ornament from the tissue, rewrapping it in plastic, and putting it in a tiny plastic sack. Imagine First Street on Christmas Eve with the tree in the parlor. Imagine it next year when the baby was there.

  It seemed impossible suddenly that his life could have experienced such a great and wondrous change. Should have died out there in the ocean, he thought.

  And he saw, not the sea in his mind suddenly, but the church at Christmas when he was a child. He saw the crib behind the altar, and Lasher standing there, Lasher looking at him when Lasher was just the man from First Street, tall and dark-haired and aristocratically pale.

  A chill gripped him. What am I doing here? She's there alone. Impossible that he hasn't shown himself to her.