Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror

by Joyce Carol Oates

  One afternoon Aunt Erica broke off her rambling, not very coherent chatter to smile at Magdalena puckishly with half her mouth, and exclaimed, “Dear child, are you thinking about your family? Are you lonely for your family?” And Magdalena roused herself, with a vague smile, as if not knowing where she was exactly, and said, “Oh, Aunt Erica, he has such a high, clear, strong voice. It’s a man’s voice, but not like one you would ever hear.”

  Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh…

  Magdalena, come!

  Another afternoon of gusty clouds, distant music. Magdalena slipped away from the house on Charter Street, and retraced her steps to lower Edmundston; to the ancient church where again the mysterious singer was practicing his hymn. This time Magdalena saw that there was no sign on the front of the church; no indication of its denomination; the stone cross on its roof, crude and weather-stained, yet possessing its own primitive beauty, had partly collapsed, forming hardly more than a T. Moss grew in rakish patches on the roof of rotted shingles. There was but a single window in the building, deep set in the stained stone wall. The church must have been very poor, in such need of repair. Yet the tenor was singing as before, more deliberately perhaps, as if determined to perfect his song. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh… Shadows of the evening steal across the sky. Magdalena heard the agitation, the passion in the voice not discernible at a distance; when the singer paused, she could hear him panting for breath. She dared to approach the alcove, her heart beating very hard, and saw at last the shadowy figure within. It was indeed a young man; a handsome young man, or so he appeared in the indistinct light; he was standing at the front of the little church near the altar, his body tense; his hands gripped into fists; tendons standing out in his neck. She felt a sensation of profound yearning pass over her, a swooning sensation of a kind she’d never before felt, as if the very earth beneath her feet were shifting; as if all volition had been drained from her. She thought I must help him!

  As the young man sang he moved his head restlessly from side to side, and ran his fingers through his hair, which was, as Magdalena had envisioned, black hair; thick, lustrous black hair. His skin was olive-pale, rather waxy; despite his beautiful voice, there was something unhealthy about him; he blinked his eyes repeatedly, as if trying to clear his vision. Magdalena came closer, waiting for him to see her. Her heart was pounding so violently she believed she might faint, yet she couldn’t turn back. I must, I must help him. That’s why I have come. There was a rich, ripe smell of decay inside the church, an earthy, stale smell that contrasted sharply with the smell of the outdoors and the fresh gusty air blown from the east. When the young man paused in his singing, licking his lips, Magdalena said hesitantly, “Excuse me, but—what a beautiful song. I’ve never heard such a beautiful song.”

  The young man turned to stare at Magdalena, or in her direction. Clearly he was distracted, confused; he’d believed himself alone, and she had intruded. For a moment Magdalena feared he would ask her to leave, or turn away in anger himself; but finally he smiled, a faint, hurried smile, and returned to his singing. He was standing alone at the altar, his chin somewhat raised and his head slightly back, the tendons in his slender neck prominent as before, and his hands shut into fists. Magdalena saw his body tremble as he sang. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh… Magdalena came closer, seeing that the young man gazed at her as he sang, through his dark, thick lashes; she thought, perhaps, he was singing to her now, as if speaking to her through these mysterious, exquisite words. For some minutes he continued to sing, and Magdalena stood transfixed listening. For now the song was yet more beautiful and seductive. Magdalena, too, stood with her hands shut into fists; a pulse beat hard in her left temple, as in the singer’s; and another pulse, an artery, beat in her throat, as in the singer’s. Magdalena had draped her aunt’s russet-red silk shawl around her shoulders before setting off to lower Edmundston, but the wind had blown it loose; she had a vague awareness that her meticulously plaited hair was coming undone. So, too, the singer shook hair out of his eyes, and when he finished his verse Magdalena saw that his pale, intense face was damp with perspiration; his skin appeared almost translucent. Without needing to be summoned, Magdalena boldly hurried to him, a stranger, and standing on tiptoe wiped his heated face with a handkerchief; a freshly laundered white linen handkerchief her aunt had given her, which she then carefully folded and returned to her pocket. “Thank you,” the singer murmured almost inaudibly; without smiling; and began to sing again, and again completed his verse, though on a somewhat strained note; or so it seemed to Magdalena, who watched his face anxiously and saw his expression of dissatisfaction. In a vague, impatient gesture, as of self-loathing, the singer indicated his throat as if meaning he was thirsty; his throat was dry, parched. Magdalena understood at once, saying, “Wait!” and hurried out of the church to find drinking water… for hadn’t she noticed, on her way into the churchyard, an old stone well amid the tall grasses, with a crank handle and a wooden pitcher? She located the well, and leaned over it to sniff the water within, which was so deep inside the earth she couldn’t see even a glimmer of a reflection. How icy-cold, how pure and good the water smelled; and how eagerly Magdalena drew a pitcher of it up, with her strong, capable arms, to bring to the singer awaiting her inside the church.

  He drank from the pitcher thirsty as an animal, his eyes nearly shut in a kind of ecstasy. Handing it then back to Magdalena, and indicating that she, too, should drink, since water remained; and so she did; and never had she tasted water so delicious, feeling as before her very soul swoon as if all volition had been sucked from her. How happy she was! The happiest she’d been since leaving Black Rock, since leaving her mother’s kitchen where her joy had been in doing as she was instructed, and doing it well. She saw the singer gaze upon her with gratitude and interest as he murmured, again almost inaudibly, “Thank you.” Magdalena smiled, blushing; she could think of nothing to say to him except, “Will you be singing here—on Sunday? Are you practicing for Sunday?” The young man smiled sadly at her, with a shrug of his shoulders; he was tall, with a proud, erect posture, yet thin; his shoulders were thin; he spoke in a lowered, hoarse voice, as if he half feared being overheard by someone other than Magdalena, and half invited it, “I must sing, I have no choice.” Magdalena wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly, and so could think of no reply. Turning from her, the singer began again, now pacing about in front of the altar, with more vigor, self-assurance. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh… Shadows of the evening steal across the sky. Surely this time he’d sung it perfectly? Surely now he could go on to the next verse? But no, the singer shrugged again irritably, and brushed his hair out of his eyes with a violent gesture. He said, in his speaking voice which was so curiously flat, hoarse, hushed, as if his throat hurt him, “I am happy only when I am singing, and singing exhausts me.”

  Magdalena found herself sitting in a pew at the front of the church, not noticing that the pew was broken, filthy with cobwebs. In a state of ecstasy she listened as the singer continued his painstaking practicing, grim and determined yet singing with passion; his eyes were very black as if all pupil, fixed and glassy, turned inward. At last he broke off again, a gleaming film of perspiration on his pale face, and Magdalena hurried to wipe it away. He caught hold of her wrist and held her, and said, “How kind you are! What is your name?” and Magdalena told him, and he said, “A beautiful name. My name is—” speaking a sibilant word that Magdalena didn’t catch, and was too shy to ask him to repeat. Magdalena said, “Where do you live?” and the young man said, with a twitch of his lips, “I live here,” and it wasn’t clear to her what he meant—for surely he didn’t live in the church. Or possibly he’d spoken ironically. He asked where she lived, and Magdalena bit her lower lip, and said, “I don’t have any home really. My mother sent me away, she didn’t love me.” Unexpectedly she confided in this stranger, for he was gazing at her with such compassion; tears filled her eyes; she heard
herself saying, “There were too many mouths to feed, I think. It would not have been possible for any of us to die.” What a strange thing to say! Yet the young man was not surprised, frowning, saying, “Yes, it is the way of all nature—too many mouths. Which is why I sing, Magdalena.” Again, Magdalena didn’t understand; but dared not reveal her ignorance. The young man said, “Will you stay with me awhile? Will you help me, Magdalena?” and Magdalena said eagerly, “Help you? How?” and he said, “Stay with me! I have only a little way to go, to get it right.” And so he sang again, more passionately than ever; and Magdalena listened enchanted. For now, surely, he’d perfected the verse? She could not imagine anything more beautiful. But he broke off, and shook his head sadly; Magdalena offered him the pitcher of water, in which some remained, forgetting that she’d drunk from it; he waved it aside without seeming to see. He said, “I began to sing because I wanted to sing, and now I sing because I am made to sing.” Magdalena said, naively, “But who makes you?”—for she could see no one else anywhere near. The church was empty except for the singer and herself; the churchyard was empty, with a look of abandonment and desolation; beyond the part-collapsed stone wall of the churchyard there was a steep drop, and rocky land below obscured by mist, and the sound of restless, choppy waves— the ocean, so close? But no human figures, no human inhabitants. Only gulls circling above, emitting cries of hunger. The singer was pacing about before the altar, though scarcely aware of his surroundings; repeatedly he found his way blocked by a pew, or the communion rail or the minister’s pulpit, and so moved blindly around it, frowning, his mouth twitching. As much to himself as to Magdalena he said, “My father sang, and his father; it was their fate, too. They died young—it’s said. I never knew them of course. They died of burst arteries. In their throats.” He stroked his slender, pale throat; gently he stroked the sinewy blue artery that Magdalena had noticed swelling as he’d sung. “It’s said to be a curse. But I don’t believe in curses.” Magdalena shivered, for there was a rising wind; by quick degrees it was growing dusk; though now the season was well into spring, and the evenings were longer. She said, “How can I help you?” and the young man said, with a sudden boyish, hopeful smile, “Sing with me, Magdalena!”

  Magdalena was astonished. Sing? With such a gifted singer?

  “But—”

  “Yes, you must! Then my strength will be doubled.”

  So, shyly, reluctantly, Magdalena tried to sing. She, who had never sung before in her life except privately to herself, or in the company of sisters, singing with this commanding young man as he clasped her hand in his and gazed into her eyes. Now the day is over… Night is drawing nigh… But Magdalena’s voice was too weak; the young man broke off so that they could begin again. Now the day is over… Night is drawing… But again something was wrong, Magdalena’s cheeks burned with shame of her breathy, thin, girl’s voice; though she tried to sing with as much accuracy and strength as she could summon, hers was a wholly untrained voice, lacking pitch, solidity, beauty. Oh, most of all beauty! The young man winced as if he felt actual pain at the sound of her voice and abruptly broke off, pushing her hand from his. Bitterly he said, “You’re not trying, Magdalena!” and Magdalena stammered, in childlike protest, “But—I am. I am.” But the young man had turned away, sullenly, saying, “Go away and leave me, you mock me.”

  So Magdalena was sent away, hurt and mortified.

  So Magdalena fled the little church, and the churchyard, and lower Edmundston, tears streaking her cheeks.

  Hearing, behind her, a pounding, reverberating silence like the waves of an invisible sea; a silence that beat against her eardrums like a great heartbeat, threatening to drown her. And beneath this silence the voice of the singer, not so strong as before, but as exquisite as ever. Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh. Shadows of the evening… And at the house on Charter Street, in the gathering dusk, she had to ring the bell (which was erratic, defective) for some minutes before grumbling Hannah came to unlock it, to let her, weeping, inside.

  5.

  “What—what is this thing! This encumbrance that is always with me!”

  Suddenly in the midst of Magdalena reading the Ninety-sixth Psalm to her, Aunt Erica began slapping and pushing at her limp left arm with the clawlike fingers of her right hand. A fury seemed to seize her, like a flame passing over her frail, doll-like body; she began to cry in high-pitched angry sobs. Helge who had been knitting close by threw down her needles and hurried to her, as Magdalena, sitting on a stool by her aunt’s divan, stared at the stricken woman in astonishment. Helge said, chiding, “Now, Mrs. Kistenmacher! Now you know what that is,” and Aunt Erica cried, “I don’t! I don’t know!” and Helge said, “Yes, you do, Mrs. Kistenmacher. Say it: ‘my arm,’” and Aunt Erica shrieked, “No.” Using the strength of her right arm and legs, the elderly woman was trying desperately to push herself up the back of the divan, like a wounded, blindly flailing creature; her eyes bulged in their sockets. Magdalena watched in horror. What could she do? How could she help? Helge had seized Aunt Erica’s right hand to calm it, and her; she placed the hand firmly on the left hand which hung useless at the invalid’s side, in a way that suggested she’d done in the past. She said, “You see? This is your hand, too, Mrs. Kistenmacher. This is your arm, too. It is all you,” and Aunt Erica whispered, “No! It is not,” though ceasing her futile struggle, and Helge said, “You mustn’t turn against yourself, Mrs. Kistenmacher. Dr. Meinke has told you.”

  For a moment it seemed that the elderly invalid had returned to her senses. She was panting, and staring at her left arm in its crocheted pink woolen sleeve; experimentally she released the left hand from her right hand, and leaned as far away on the divan as possible without losing her balance. Then her moist little rosebud mouth opened like a bird’s beak and her good, right eye narrowed to a squint and as Magdalena and Helge looked on, helpless, she began to scream, and scream.

  6.

  Magdalena thought He has sent me away, I must never approach him again.

  Magdalena thought I failed him: he detests me.

  Magdalena thought, sifting her shiny black rosary beads through her fingers, God, give me strength not to approach him again. God, give me pride.

  And so for days Magdalena obsessively barricaded the windows of her room against the gusty sunshine and tumult of spring. She made certain that the windows were shut tight, and locked; and the blinds drawn flush to the sills. During the day she avoided windows elsewhere in the house whenever possible and didn’t dare go outside, even to walk about the grounds. At night she slept poorly, pillows pressed against her ears; though she could hear little beyond the anxious pulsing of her own blood, she imagined the singer’s voice with unnerving clarity as if he were standing, not miles away in a deserted church, but just outside her bedroom door. Now the day is over… Night is drawing…

  Fiercely Magdalena whispered to herself, “No!”

  §

  The wind off the river was damp, chill, smelling of something brackish and metallic. Invisible grit was driven into Magdalena’s face, stinging her eyes. How ugly the river looked, the color of molten lead, reflecting a heavy leaden sky. And the riverfront structures and boats, how shabby, derelict. Magdalena was hurrying across Merrimack Bridge, breathless and shivering. Despite the bridge traffic and the harsh lapping sounds of the river she could hear distinctly the young man singing, calling to her. It seemed he was singing with a renewed passion, or desperation. And had he not pleaded with her, Will you help me, Magdalena?

  This time, Magdalena was determined not to fail him.

  Where are you going, child? Aunt Erica had asked, playfully tapping Magdalena’s arm. Your thoughts are flying away from here, and where? Magdalena had murmured, embarrassed, that she was going for a walk; just in the neighborhood; it was such a beautiful May afternoon (for so the weather had been beautiful, in the hilly district above Edmundston); she promised she wouldn’t go far. And Aunt Erica had laughed, her good eye cold tw
inkling, saying I don’t go far, there’s two of us.

  And so Magdalena made her way along the rough riverfront streets, and into the older, deserted neighborhood, and to the old church at the top of a hill. She saw to her surprise that the churchyard was more overgrown and desolate than she recalled, as if a storm had swept violently through it. Dead tree limbs lay scattered amid the graves, smashed urns, numerous gravestones overturned, severely cracked. Beyond the stone wall where there should have been land, Magdalena saw, as before, an opaque wall of undulating mist, more oppressive than before as it seemed to be quivering with its own malevolent life. And beyond the mist was—the open sea? The great Atlantic Ocean that had so broken her parents, and others who’d made the crossing, that they never wished to see or speak of it again? Magdalena could see no water but believed she could hear, beyond the tenor’s strained, hopeful voice, its forceful arrhythmic sound. Always, beyond the human voice, the sound of the great ocean.

  And the shrill, cruel shrieks of the gulls overhead, always circling, lunging for their prey.

  Another surprise awaited Magdalena at the rear of the church, for she saw that it was hardly a church at all any longer, but rather a ruin; mound of rubble; most of the roof had collapsed inward, and was covered in patches of moss. Yet there remained a narrow entranceway like the opening to a cave, hardly more than the size of a man of ordinary height, into the cobwebbed, shadowy interior. Still the singing continued. A pause, and coughing; quick panting; and again the singing. Now the day is over… Night is drawing… Magdalena trembled with excitement and dread—for what if the young man should banish her, again? At once? As soon as he saw her? Shadows of the evening… These notes were, to Magdalena’s eager ear, as flawless as ever, of surpassing beauty.