Comes the Blind Fury

by John Saul

  “Be careful,” Sally warned Michelle. “There’s nails sticking up, and you can’t see them through the weeds.”

  “Doesn’t anybody take care of this place?” Michelle asked. “The graveyards in Boston never look like this.”

  “I don’t think anybody cares anymore,” Sally answered her. “Uncle Joe says he isn’t even going to be buried here—he says being buried’s a waste of time and just takes up a lot of ground that could be used for other things. Once he even threatened to take out all the gravestones and let the whole place grow wild.”

  Michelle paused, and looked around her. “He might as well have,” she observed. “This place is creepy.”

  Sally avoided the tangle of vines and weeds as she moved through the graveyard. “Wait’ll you see what’s over here.”

  Michelle was about to follow her when her eyes suddenly fell on one of the headstones. It stood at an odd angle, as if it were about to fall under its own weight. It was the inscription that had caught Michelle’s eye. She read it again:

  LOUISE CARSON—Born 1850

  DIED IN SIN—1880

  “Sally?”

  Ahead of her, Sally Carstairs paused, and turned back to see what had happened.

  “Have you ever seen this?” Michelle was pointing to one of the headstones. Even before she went back to look, Sally knew which one it was. Seconds later she was standing next to Michelle, staring at the strange inscription.

  “What does it mean?” Michelle asked.

  “How should I know?”

  “Does anybody know?”

  “Search me,” Sally said. “I asked my mother once, but she didn’t know either. Whatever it was, it happened a hundred years ago.”

  “But it’s creepy,” Michelle said. “ ‘Died in Sin’! It sounds so—so Puritan!”

  “Well, what do you expect? This is New England!”

  “But who was she?”

  “One of Uncle Joe’s ancestors, I guess. All the Carsons were.” She took Michelle’s arm and pulled at her. “Come on—the one I wanted to show you is over there in the corner.”

  Reluctantly, Michelle allowed herself to be drawn away from the strange grave, but as she picked her way across the cemetery, her mind stayed on the odd inscription. What could it mean? Did it mean anything? Then Sally stopped and pointed.

  “There,” she whispered to Michelle. “Look at that.”

  Michelle’s eyes searched out the ground where Sally was pointing. At first she didn’t see anything. Then, nearly lost under the brambles, she saw a small slab of stone. She knelt down, and pulled the thorny branches to one side, brushing the dirt off the stone with her free hand.

  It was a simple rectangle of granite, unadorned and pitted with age. On it was a single word:

  AMANDA

  Michelle sucked in her breath, then examined the stone more closely, sure that there must be more to the inscription than just the name. There wasn’t.

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. It doesn’t say when she was born, or when she died, or her last name, or anything. Who was she?” Her eyes wide, Michelle stared up at Sally, who quickly knelt down beside her.

  “She was a blind girl,” Sally said, keeping her voice low. “She must have been one of the Carsons, and she must have lived here a long time ago. My mother says they think she fell off the cliff one day.”

  “But why isn’t her last name on the stone, or when she was born, and when she died?” Michelle’s eyes, reflecting her fascination, were fixed on the pitted granite slab.

  “Because she isn’t buried here,” Sally whispered. “They never found her body. It must have been swept out to sea or something. Anyway, Mom told me they only put this marker here as a temporary thing. But they never found her body, so they never put up a real headstone.”

  Michelle felt a chill pass through her. “They’ll never find the body now,” she said.

  “I know. That’s why they say the ghost will always be around here. The kids say Amanda won’t leave until her body’s found, and since the body won’t ever be found …”

  Sally’s voice trailed off, and Michelle tried to absorb what she had just heard. Almost involuntarily she put her hand out and rested it on the stone for a moment, then pulled it quickly away and stood up.

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” she said. “Come on, let’s go home.”

  She started purposefully out of the cemetery, but when she realized Sally wasn’t following her she paused and looked back. Sally was still kneeling by the strange memorial, but when Michelle called out to her, she stood up and hurried toward Michelle.

  Neither of the girls spoke until they were out of the cemetery and on their way back to the Pendletons’.

  “You have to admit, it’s weird,” Sally said.

  “What is?” Michelle said evasively.

  “You choosing that name for your doll. I mean, that could have been her doll, lying on that shelf all these years, just waiting for you to find it.”

  “That’s dumb,” Michelle said flatly, not willing to admit that what Sally had just said was exactly what had been going through her own mind. “I could have named the doll anything.”

  “But you didn’t,” Sally insisted. “You named it Amanda. There must have been a reason.”

  “It was just a coincidence. Besides, Jeff’s lived here all his life, and if there were a ghost, he’d have seen it.”

  “Maybe he has,” Sally said thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why he won’t go over to your house.”

  “He doesn’t come over because he’s busy,” Michelle said quickly. “He has to help his mother.” Her voice was becoming strident, and she felt herself getting angry. Why was Sally talking like this? “Can’t we talk about something else?” she asked.

  Sally looked at her curiously, then grinned. “Okay. I’m starting to scare myself, anyway.”

  Grateful for her friend’s understanding, Michelle reached out and gave Sally’s arm a friendly squeeze.

  “Ouch!” Sally yelped, flinching and pulling away from Michelle.

  Her arm, Michelle thought. Her arm’s hurting again, just like it did last week. But nothing happened to her, not today. A shiver passed through Michelle, but she was careful not to let her sudden feeling of unease show.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, touching Sally’s arm lightly. “I thought it was all better.”

  “I thought it was, too,” Sally replied, glancing back at the cemetery. “But I guess it isn’t.” Suddenly she wanted to get away from there. “Let’s go back to your house,” she said. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

  The two girls hurried toward the old house on the bluff. As they reached the back door, Michelle shivered a little, and watched the afternoon fog gather in the air above the sea. Then she pulled open the door and followed Sally inside.

  “Dad?”

  The Pendletons were gathered in the front parlor, a room they had quickly adopted as a family den, since the living room was too cavernous to suit them comfortably. Cal was sitting in his big chair, his feet resting on an ottoman, and Michelle was stretched out on the floor near him, a book open in front of her. She was lying on her elbows, her chin propped up in the palms of her hands, and Cal couldn’t understand why her neck wasn’t hurting her. Flexibility of youth, he decided. In a frightfully hard-looking antique chair next to the fireplace, June was industriously knitting a sweater for the baby, alternating the stripes—blue and pink—just to be on the safe side.

  “Um?” Cal replied, his concentration still on the medical journal in his lap.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Cal’s eyes left the page he had been reading. He glanced at his wife and saw that June had abandoned her knitting. He turned to his daughter, a tentative smile on his face.

  “Do I what?” he asked.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Cal’s smile faded as be realized Michelle was serious. He closed the magazine, wondering what had brought on such
a strange question.

  “Didn’t we talk about this five years ago?” he asked mildly. “About the same time we talked about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”

  “Well, maybe not ghosts,” Michelle said haltingly. “Not like that, anyway. Spirits, I guess.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” June asked.

  Michelle began to feel foolish. Now, in the warmth and comfort of the den, the thoughts that had been worrying her all afternoon seemed silly. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it at all. She considered for a moment, then decided to tell them what had happened.

  “You know that old graveyard between here and the Bensons’?” she began. “Sally showed it to me today.”

  “Don’t tell me you saw a ghost in a graveyard,” Cal exclaimed.

  “No, I didn’t,” Michelle said scornfully. “But there’s a strange marker there. It—it has the name of my doll on it.”

  “Amanda?” June said. “That is strange.”

  Michelle nodded. “And Sally says there’s no body in the grave. She says Amanda was a blind girl who fell off the bluff a long time ago.” She hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to continue. Sensing her indecision, Cal urged her on.

  “What else did she say?”

  “She said some of the kids think Amanda’s ghost is still around here,” Michelle said quietly.

  “You didn’t believe her, did you?” Cal asked.

  “No …” Michelle said, but her voice made it clear that she wasn’t sure.

  “Well, you can believe me, princess,” Cal declared. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, spirits, boogeymen, haunts, poltergeists, or any other such nonsense, and you shouldn’t let anyone tell you there is.”

  “But it’s weird, me naming the doll Amanda,” Michelle protested. “Sally thinks the doll might even have belonged to her …”

  “It’s just a coincidence, dear.” June picked up her knitting, quickly counted her stitches, and resumed her work. “Those things happen all the time. That’s how ghost stories start. Something odd happens, purely by coincidence, but people don’t want to believe it was just chance. They want to believe there’s something else—luck, ghosts, fate, whatever.” When Michelle still looked unconvinced, June set her work down once more.

  “All right,” she said. “How did you happen to choose the name for your doll?”

  “Well, I wanted an old-fashioned sounding name—” Michelle began.

  “Okay. That lets out a lot of names right there. Yours, and mine, and lots of others that don’t sound old-fashioned. The old-fashioned ones, like Agatha, and Sophie, and Prudence—”

  “They’re all ugly,” Michelle protested.

  “So that narrows the list down still more,” June reasoned. “Now you wanted a name that’s ‘old-fashioned’ but not ‘ugly,’ and if you start with the A’s, as most of us do, about the first one you come to is—”

  “—Amanda.” Michelle finished, grinning, “And I thought it had just come to me,” she muttered.

  “Well, in a way, it did,” June said. “The mind works so fast, you didn’t even realize you’d gone through all that reasoning. And that, my love, is how ghost stories are born—coincidence! Now off to bed, or you’ll fall asleep at school tomorrow.”

  Michelle pulled herself to her feet, and went to her father. Her arms slid around his neck, and she hugged him.

  “I’m really dumb sometimes, aren’t I?” she said.

  “No more than the rest of us, princess.” He kissed her gently, then smacked her bottom. “Off to bed with you.”

  He listened as Michelle went upstairs, then looked fondly at his wife.

  “How do you do it?” he asked admiringly.

  “Do what?” June replied absently.

  “Think up logical explanations for things that don’t seem logical.”

  “Talent,” June replied. “Just talent. Besides, if I’d let you think up an explanation, we’d have been up all night, and wound up all believing in ghosts.”

  She got to her feet, and poked at the fire, settling it low on the grate, while Cal turned off the lights. Then, hand in hand, they, too, climbed the stairs.

  Michelle lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night—the surf pounding on the beach below, the last crickets of summer chirping happily in the darkness, the light breeze soughing in the trees around the house. She thought about what her mother had said. It made sense. And yet—and yet it seemed as though there was something wrong with tibie explanation. There should be something else. That’s silly, she told herself. There isn’t anything else. But even as the nightsounds lulled her to sleep, Michelle had the feeling that there was something else.

  Something ominous.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have named the doll Amanda at all.…

  The nightsounds had stopped when Michelle awoke. She lay still in bed, listening. Around her, the silence was almost palpable.

  And then she felt it.

  Something was watching her.

  Something in her room.

  She wanted to pull the covers up over her face and hide from whatever had come to her, but she knew she couldn’t.

  Whatever it was, she had to look at it.

  Slowly, Michelle sat up in bed, her eyes, wide and frightened, searching out the dark corners of the bedroom.

  By the window.

  It was in the corner by the window—a black shape, something standing there, standing still, watching her.

  And then, as she watched, it began coming toward her.

  It moved out into the room, into the moonlight that was shining silver through the window.

  It was a little girl, no older than herself.

  Inexplicably, the fear began to drain from Michelle, and was replaced by curiosity. Who was she? What did she want?

  The child moved closer to her, and Michelle could see that she was dressed strangely—her dress was black, and fell close to the floor, with large puffed sleeves that ended in tight cuffs at her wrists. On her head, nearly hiding her face, she wore a black bonnet.

  Michelle watched, transfixed, as the strange figure approached her. In the moonlight, the girl turned her head, and Michelle saw her face.

  It was a soft face, with a cupid’s mouth, and a small, upturned nose.

  Then Michelle saw the eyes.

  Milky white, and shimmering faintly in the moonlight, they gazed sightlessly at Michelle, and as the sightless eyes fixed on her, the little girl raised one arm, and pointed at Michelle.

  Her fear flooding over her once again, Michelle began to scream.

  Her own screams woke her up.

  Terrified, she stared around the empty bedroom, looking for the strange black figure that had been there only a second before.

  The room was empty.

  Around her, the nightsounds still droned on, the surf pounding steadily below, the breeze still plucking at the pines.

  Then the door to her room opened, and her father was there.

  “Princess? Princess, are you all right?” He was sitting on her bed, his arms around her, comforting her.

  “It was a nightmare, Daddy,” Michelle whispered. “It was awful, Daddy, and so real. There was someone here. Right here, in the room …”

  “No, baby, no,” Cal soothed her. “There’s nobody here but me. Just you and me, and your mother. It was only a dream, sweetheart.”

  Cal sat with her for a long time, talking to her, calming her. Finally, near dawn, he kissed her softly and told her to go back to sleep. He left her door open.

  Michelle lay still for a while, trying to forget the terrifying dream. Unable to fall asleep, she got out of bed and went to the window seat. Picking up the doll, she sat in the window, staring out into the darkness of the last moments of night. As the fog began to lift, Michelle suddenly thought she saw something—a figure, standing on the bluff to the north, near the old cemetery.

  She looked again, straining her eyes, but the mists swirled in the wind, and she could see nothing
.

  Taking the antique doll with her, Michelle returned to her bed. As the first gray of dawn crept into the sky, she fell asleep once more.

  Beside her, its head resting on the pillow, the sightless doll gazed blankly upward.

  When he left Michelle’s room, Cal did not go straight back to bed. Instead, he put on a robe, fished his pipe and tobacco off the dresser, and went downstairs.

  He wandered through the house aimlessly for a while, then settled finally in the little formal parlor at the front of the first floor. He lit his pipe, propped his feet up, and let his mind drift.

  He was back in Boston, the night that boy had died—the night his life had changed.

  He couldn’t even remember the boy’s name now.

  Couldn’t, or wouldn’t.

  That was part of the problem. There were too many whose names he couldn’t remember, and who had died.

  How many of them had died because of him?

  The last one, the boy from Paradise Point, he was sure of. But there might have been others. How many others? Well, there wouldn’t be any more.

  His mind kept coming back to that boy.

  Alan Hanley. That was his name. Cal could remember the day Alan Hanley had been brought to Boston General.

  The ambulance had arrived late in the afternoon, with Alan Hanley unconscious, and Josiah Carson tending him. The boy had fallen from a roof.

  This roof, Cal knew now, but at the time it had made no difference.

  Josiah Carson had done what he could, but when he realized that the boy’s injuries were too serious to be handled in the Paradise Point Clinic, he had brought him to Boston.

  And Calvin Pendleton had attended him.

  It seemed, at first, like a fairly simple case—a few broken bones, and possible cranial damage. Cal had done his best, setting the breaks, and checking for internal injuries. That was when he had found what he thought was a blood clot building up inside the boy’s head. It had seemed to him to be an emergency, and so, with Josiah Carson at his side, looking on, he had operated.