Half in Shadow

by Mary Elizabeth Counselman

  Marcia stared back at her, caught by the girl’s delicate beauty. “No, dear,” she murmured gently. "Of course not. You’re Lollie, aren’t you? Renny’s sister, and Victor’s? Come closer; I won’t hurt you. Why should anyone want to hurt you?”

  The fawn-eyes flickered toward the door warily, and came back to Marcia, round and trusting. One finger stole out suddenly, timidly, indicating a brilliant brooch at Marcia’s throat.

  “What’s that?” she asked with wonder. "Precious jewels! Are you a princess, like in the picture book?” The soft eyes regarded Marcia with admiration. "You are a princess, in disguise! I can tell! And you wouldn’t take me away to that place.” she asserted with a quick smile of trust. "Renny said you were a mean lady. But he’s wrong. You’re like the princess in the story—'both beautiful and kind,’ it said. I can tell,” the blond head nodded solemnly. "I can tell by your eyes and the way you talk... Oh, the pretty jewels!” she clapped her hands. "Red and blue and green and yellow, like a rainbow!”

  MARCIA bit her lip, blinking back tears of pity for this lovely young girl with the mind of a child. On impulse, her hands went swiftly to the brooch at her neck, and unfastened it. She did not hold it out; merely laid it on the edge of the bare mattress.

  "There, dear,” she whispered. "You like it? You can have it. But don’t tell anybody—it’s our secret!”

  The fawn-eyes widened with delight. "Ooh! For me? Now I’m sure you’re a princess! Only a really, truly princess would... it’s mine? To keep?”

  One delicate hand stole out toward the ornament; almost touched it. And then an incredible thing happened.

  Like a live creature, the brooch leaped suddenly into the air some three feet above the bed. It poised there for a fractional moment, then sailed across the room to crash against the far wall.

  The girl Lollie emitted a sharp wail of pain. She jerked back her arm, and then cringed, gripping her right wrist. Marcia stared, stunned.

  She herself had not moved. There was no other living creature in the shadowy room. And the nails of the girl’s own left hand were broken or bitten off to the quick.

  But, nevertheless, four deep scratches were slowly reddening in angry welts on Lollie’s forearm. As Marcia looked, blood oozed from them. It ran down the slender wrist and dripped to the dusty carpet.

  Lollie stifled a sob. One piteous glance she cast at Marcia. Her lips moved as though she were trying to speak, to explain, but no sounds issued from them. Another sob racked her frail body. Then, with a longing look at the brooch, gleaming where it had fallen in the distant corner, she wheeled and ran from the room.

  Marcia huddled in the big bed, wide-eyed and still. Her stunned gaze was fastened on the empty doorway through which the girl had vanished... and caught a glimpse of straggly gray hair. Old Gran was peering at her around the jamb. Now, discovered, she popped out, breaking into another of her senile cachinnations and flapping bony hands against her thighs.

  "Heh-heh-heh! Scared out’n a year’s growth, ain’t ye? They all are, them that’s ever seen it!”

  She scuttled over to the corner, pounced on the brooch, and held it to catch the fading light, bead-eyes glittering brighter than the jeweled ornament. It looked grotesque in that wrinkled mummy-hand.

  "My, ain’t that fancy! Too fancy for a child—and a crazed one, at that!’’ she tittered, thrusting the brooch into a pocket of her gray shawl. "And ye’ll not tell Victor about this, either!” she added, glaring. "Ye hear? If ye do, he’ll beat Lol-lie for comin’ up here to see ye when he told her not. Ye wouldn’t want to cause her hurt, now would ye, dearie? Besides, if Vic knows ye saw her, he might not let ye leave here... so ye won’t be tollin’ him, will ye, dearie?” she asked slyly.

  Marcia gulped, and shook her head like one dazed by a blow. The weird events of the past few minutes had bewildered her. But rapidly her logic and common sense were coming to the rescue, thrusting out in every direction for a spark of sanity in this mad household.

  She glanced down at the ring on her finger, and her lip quivered uncontrollably. Jim, her Jim, and Alice were marching up the church aisle about now, to the strains of Lohengrin. And back at the school, no one would miss her until Monday classes. Here in this old house in the mountains she could be swallowed up, and no one would ever know what had become of her and her battered little roadster. Perhaps, before Lollie’s visit, she had had a chance to escape alive. But now, apparently, she had seen too much. When Victor Mason came home! Someone would tell him; he would know...

  Miserably she sought for a possible means of escape. Why would they want to keep her here? To insure her silence, of course—silence about some secret this old house held. Those scratches on the girl’s arm, the fear in all their eyes, and the antics of that jumping brooch: it all added up, she was certain, to a weird mystery that smacked of the supernatural.

  Something here, something no more tangible than a shadow, had changed a skilled young doctor into a drunken hermit, a healthy intelligent little boy into a nervous killer, and this fine old home into a haunted hovel. That appealing girl-child called Lollie—the mystery centered about her, Marcia was sure. And as long as it remained a mystery, for a stranger like herself to chatter about when she left, she would never get out of this old house alive.

  She sat up in bed, blue eyes snapping with sudden purpose.

  Here before her was a riddle—which, solved, might mean her freedom. And no young woman who dared study the science of psychiatry could look herself in the face again if she was too terrified even to attempt its solution!

  Marcia looked at Gran. The old hag was squinting at her again; she had just spied the diamond solitaire, and was staring at it greedily.

  "I want that, too!” she rasped, jabbing out a bony finger at the ring. "Give it to me, quick—or ye’ll not leave this house alive. I’ll set Renny onto ye! I’ll give him a knife.”

  Marcia tensed. All her senses were alert now, wrestling with her problem. There was also a burning desire to help that dryad of a girl, Lollie—and a barb of curiosity — to stiffen her spine and sharpen her wits.

  Now, obediently, she tugged at the ring to pacify this absurd old woman. "I can’t get it off,” she lied. "You’ll have to get me soap and water, or a file. Tell me about Lollie, won’t you... er... Gran? Isn’t that what they call you? Your grandchildren?”

  The old hag spat with surprising venom. "Victor and them? Ha! Them spineless Masons! A pack of fools, the lot of ’em... and they’re no kin of mine, except by marriage. ’Twas Aubrey Mason I married, their great-uncle and the biggest fool of the lot. A smart woman could wrap him around her finger. Which I did!” she cackled. “Which I did! His fine womenfolks yelped and fumed their heads off, but he married me—right off the streets, in Mobile! Not good enough for ’em, I wasn’t. And now,” she tittered with shrill secret mirth, "now they’re not good enough for me! They’ve rented away at the root, these high-and-mighty Masons... and it’s fear that’s rotted ’em! Fear!”

  She stopped short, glaring suspiciously at Marcia as though apprehensive that she had said too much. Wrinkled lips writhed back from toothless gums.

  "It’s no business of yours!” she snarled. "What are you questionin’ me for? Get that ring off! Give it to me, quick, before—”

  SHE broke off again, cocking her head sidewise in a listening attitude. Then, muttering, she scuttled from the room.

  A moment later a tall saturnine man, clean-shaven and dressed in a cheap dark suit, strode in from the hall. At Marcia’s expression, he smiled wryly and rubbed his chin.

  "Yes, Miss... Trent, by your driver’s license,” Victor Mason drawled. "You’re thinking I look almost human without the beard, eh? Thank you. First time I’ve dressed and shaved in six months. You should be honored!”

  Marcia looked up at him, caught a gleam of sardonic humor in the dark eyes, and smiled. It was a bright intimate smile. Many a young male had assured her it was irresistible. But Victor Mason snorted.

  "
Trying feminine wiles on me now, are you?” he laughed shortly. "Hoping to cajole me into not keeping you here? Please don’t bother!” he snapped coldly. "I have no intention of detaining you, Miss Trent, any longer than I can possibly help. Your car wasn’t damaged much. Just a blow-out, a bent axle and a crumpled fender. I have a man working on it now—one who’ll overlook the bullet holes.”

  "Oh! Thank you! I—” Marcia began in a rush of relief.

  "Just now, though,” Mason continued coldly, "I’m worried. It’s Renny. He seems determined to finish what he started, the minute he gets a chance. He’s hiding somewhere around the house now. Until I find him and lock him up in the woodshed, I suppose I’ll have to act as your bodyguard. Damned nuisance!”

  Marcia shrugged, hiding her worried look, and continued to smile. She patted her hair, straightened her collar. If only he did not learn about Lollie’s visit!

  "You know,” she said coolly, "I believe you’re the rudest man I ever met, Doctor Mason. At first I was afraid of you. But now, since I’ve discovered that you are horribly afraid, too... of something... I’m not frightened any more. Your little brother? Neurotic. That’s why he tried to shoot me, and—”

  She stopped with a gasp of dismay. Victor Mason’s eyes, which had drifted from her face, were suddenly riveted on the dusty carpet. Two bright drops of blood glistened there. The man’s head jerked up, eyes narrowed, glowering at Marcia.

  "Lollie!” he burst out. "She’s been in here, hasn’t she? The little idiot, I warned her! I’ll—”

  "You’ll beat her?” Marcia flashed, indignant. "You’d punish that poor sick child?”

  The man frowned. "Beat Lollie? Whatever gave you that idea? I’d break anybody in half,” he grated, "who tried to lay a hand on her! I wouldn’t hesitate to... kill you in cold blood, Miss Trent, if I thought you were going to make her unhappy, intentionally or otherwise.” He shrugged, laughed wearily. "There, you see? I love my sister quite as much as

  Renny. "I’ve devoted my life to helping her—but I’ve failed miserably. There’s nothing a man, a blundering scientist, can do... against—”

  HE BROKE off, that shadow of horror darkening the deep-set eyes. His mouth twitched, and the graceful surgeon’s-hands twisted together in anguish. Abruptly he whirled on Marcia.

  "What did you see?” he rasped. "How much do you know? Oh hell! I knew if I brought you here... Now,” he stated flatly, "you can never be permitted to leave. That’s that. Your promise of silence isn’t enough. You’d break it—and I can’t take that chance for Lollie.”

  Marcia nodded gently. "I understand,” she said. "If her case were reported to the authorities, the child would be committed to... an institution for the insane. I've read of such cases,” she whispered, awed. "It’s... demoniacal possession, isn’t it? When her... seizures recur, she’s affected with... Dr. Mason, I’ve heard of stigmata, but I never thought I’d see a case so remarkable. It occurs most often in religious fanatics, so I’ve read. There was a case in Vavaria only last week. The woman, upset by war news, broke out with wounds similar to those of Christ on the Cross. Medical records tell cf dozens of other cases.

  "There was also a little Rumanian girl who broke out with 'bites’ and ’scratches’ like those inflicted by a large cat. Dermographism, that’s the medical term. And when it is accompanied by hyperemia, the stigmatic wounds actually bleed. Extreme hysteria causes the skin to react to imaginary blows, and cuts and weals will appear as though the victim has actually been struck.

  "Your sister, Lollie... I saw her arm break out with such wounds that bled. The attack was accompanied by temporary aphonia, too — hysterical loss of speech.

  Oh, the poor darling! If only there were something we could do to help her!”

  Victor’s savage look faded. Curiously he peered at Marcia, undecided for a moment. Then, as if driven by a surge of despair, he took one stride and sat down on the edge of the great bed.

  'I have misjudged you," he blurted. "You are kind... and you also seem to be a level-headed young woman, Miss Trent. I... I... you’ve studied psychiatry. Tell me, frankly, does Lollie seem to be a mental case?”

  Marcia met his eye thoughtfully, and shook her head.

  "No, Doctor Mason. She seems a rather bright child, though undeveloped. Too sheltered, naturally. She must be extremely nervous, to be afflicted with stigmata. But... no; I wouldn’t say she was insane. Just badly frightened—like the rest of you! What is it you’re afraid of, here in this house?”

  The man’s eyes darkened. His mouth twitched; he steadied it with an effort.

  "We’re afraid of... It,” he said flatly. "The... the Thing that scratches her. Oh, yes, Miss Trent,” he gestured bitterly, "talk about stigmata till you’re black in the face! I’ve studied it. I can quote you case histories you never heard of. At least two more, anyhow,” he muttered. "My Aunt Silvia, and my great-aunt, Anne. You see, we Masons have lived with this Thing for three generations. It’s been handed down, always affecting the youngest, most high-strung daughter. That’s the hideous thing. It isn’t new. It's been with us so long... and yet we’ve never been able to get to it or do a thing toward... destroying it.”

  HIS voice trailed off dully. Marcia opened her mouth, shut it with a snap.

  "Doctor Mason,” she exploded, ''you’re not hinting that you believe there actually is something that... that scratches Lollie!

  Of all the silly superstitious rot! Why, an intelligent medical man like yourself—”

  Victor Mason snorted. "Superstitious!” he laughed harshly. "That’s what we’ve been hearing all our lives! Stigmata! Nervous hysteria. Listen, Miss Trent—it isn’t only those welts on Lollie’s flesh that make me believe the unbelievable. There are other phenomena. Inanimate objects move and go flying through the air, in a room where Lollie is. Small objects that a creature about the size of a monkey might pick up and throw.”

  Marcia stiffened. She was remembering that flying brooch. But a recoiling spring in the mattress, logic told her, could easily have catapulted the ornament across the room. Only her disturbed fancy had made it seem to move so slowly, to hang there in midair for a moment. For the thing could not have flown across the room by itself—nor could any ghostly hand have thrown it. The idea was ridiculous.

  But a look at Victor Mason’s haunted eyes sent a chill down her spine.

  "I’ve tried so hard and so long,” he was saying wearily. "I gave up my interne-ship in a New York hospital and came home when... when Lollie... I was twenty-two then. She was nine. For seven years I’ve worked on her here, studied, tried everything under the sun. I... I’ve even hired a professional ghost-breaker to try and exorcise the thing. But it’s no use.

  "Why don’t you send her to a good private sanitarium?” Marcia demanded. "I should think—” She broke off.

  Victor Mason stood up with a jerk, and glared down at her. "There!” he snarled. "I knew you’d say that! They all do. Send her away, lock her up in a padded cell for observation by a lot of crackpot neurologists! Miss Trent, my great-aunt Anne died in an asylum. Aunt Silvia killed herself rather than be sent back to one. Poor little Lollie lives in terror that she’ll be dragged away from us and locked up like an animal... for nothing! Your damned scientists can’t do a thing for her; they never did anything for Anne or Silvia! Because, you see, it’s not a nervous hallucination. The Thing is real.”

  Marcia shook her head, exasperated. "You actually believe that?”

  Mason nodded. "I do. In adolescence, this... this demon attached itself to Anne, then to Silvia when Anne died. It got Lollie sooner because she was always a nervous child. It’s like an invisible parasite! It will live, attached to her, until she dies—just as it lived with Anne and Silvia Mason.

  "That case in Rumania that you mentioned: a young girl, possessed or haunted by a sort of 'familiar spirit.’ They called it a poltergeist—a mean, prankish spirit, not really dangerous, just annoying and nerve-racking like a bad-tempered monkey. That,” he intoned,
"is what we Masons have been living with for three generations. We’ve had the choice of believing we were either haunted or insane—with everyone we knew blandly telling us the Thing simply doesn’t exist. That’s made us rather anti-social,” Mason drawled bitterly, "trying to live a normal life outside and a madman’s existence within our home. Gradually it’s sapped our strength and ambition until we’re—” His mouth twisted. "Well, you see, Miss Trent. Poor-white trash; that’s what we’ve become. We have no friends, and... frankly, our only income is from the bootleg corn that I distill and sell. We’ve shut ourselves off from the world, with only one thought: to make Lollie’s life as bearable as possible under the circumstances. So now you know,” he added flatly, "why I can’t take the chance of your leaving here and talking. Sensation-mongers would overrun us tomorrow if Lollie’s case were made public. Then some officious busybody would insist on her being sent to the state asylum for 'medical aid’... and she’d kill herself, or die of sheer terror.”

  The ex-doctor passed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. Marcia, her heart sinking, stared at him. But the man’s face was cold, determined.

  “I don’t know what to do. Murder,” he drawled, doesn’t appeal to me. But if you attempt to leave here now, I’m afraid it’s my only alternative, Miss Trent.”

  Marcia shivered, then steadied herself with an effort.

  "I can keep my mouth shut,” she said. "But I see you don’t believe that. A‘ll right, Doctor Mason: My only chance then is to . .. break this ghost that’s been breaking you all these years; is that it? I don’t believe in goblins. I can’t believe that poor child is haunted by an invisible being that scratches her and throws things. There’s a scientific explanation for the stigmata; you admit that much. Well, then—there must be a reason for those objects sailing through the air.

  "It sounds like the supernatural, I know. But so did television, to people of Shakespeare’s time. If a parachute jumper had dropped from a plane in a Twelfth-Century village, he’d have been burned at the stake. But the witchcraft of today is the science of tomorrow, Doctor Mason. Look here. Will you let me be around that poor child, Lollie, tonight? I have reason to believe she likes and trusts me, and I may be able to help her. May I try? Not,” she burst out sincerely, "just to get myself out of this jam, but because I feel desperately sorry for Lollie, for all of you, and want to help you—believe it or not!”