The shadow-ridden eyes of Victor Mason bored into her face, troubled and uncertain. But Maria’s blue ones did nor waver; and a half-smile twisted the bitter mouth. Mason thrust out his hand.
"You’re a good sport,” he sighed. "Of course, there’s nothing you can do. I . .. wish I dared trust your silence. But Renny and I live for Lollie, you understand. We can’t let any other emotion conflict with our efforts to help her.”
MARCIA nodded. "I understand. But you’ll send her to me, so I can—?” The former doctor frowned thoughtfully. Then, on sudden impulse, he flipped back the quilt and lowered Marcia’s feet to the floor.
“I’ll do better than that,” he shrugged. "You’re going to be here from now on, so you might as well get a quick dose of what it’s like. Dinner was nearly ready when I came up. I planned to send you up a tray, but... well, with Renny on the loose, you’d better eat with us. Think you can hobble downstairs?”
Leaning on the man’s proffered arm, Marcia stood up painfully. "I think I can make it,” she grimaced. "But—maybe your grandmother—or great-aunt, I believe she said—maybe she won’t like my dining with the family. I don’t think,” she added carefully, "that she likes me much.” "Who, Gran?” Mason laughed, and shrugged. "Oh, Gran doesn’t like anybody. She’s the black sheep of our family. Married a weak-willed ancestor of ours, after a rather lurid past, and the family never received her. She’s lived in the house here, though, hating us like hell because marrying Great-uncle Aubrey didn’t automatically make her a lady! But... she’s watched us deteriorate, and likes to rub it in. Gran’s the only one of us, I suppose, who hasn’t let this business get her down. She just calls a ghost a ghost, and lets it go at that!”
“I see,” Marcia murmured. "Yes, she’s quite a character!”
She glanced up at the weary sardonic profile beside her. Leaning on Mason’s arm, she managed to limp down a long, curved staircase, deep in dust and cobwebs like every other part of the big house. Down a long hall they went, and across a rotting screened porch to the isolated kitchen in the rear.
"We live in the kitchen and keep the rest of the house closed,” her host explained as he shoved open the door.
Marcia hobbled in. The kitchen was huge, cluttered but fairly clean. On the side opposite a big wood stove an unpainted table was set—for five. Then Marcia thought, the old woman had expected her after all.
But, as they entered now, Gran turned from the stove and peered at her in surprise. She leered at Mason.
"Well, Victor!” she quavered. "Have ye lost your mind? Want her to see everything, eh? Want her to blabber about Lollie all over the state? Eh? Eh?”
Victor Mason dismissed her with a look. "She’s not leaving,” he snapped. "Miss Trent is staying with us... indefinitely; and I suspect you, Gran, of sending Lollie up there to see her. Set another plate— the damage is done, and she’ll just have to stay.”
He helped Marcia into a straight-backed kitchen chair, on his right at the head of the table. A dingy frayed cloth that had once been fine damask covered the unpainted boards. The dishes, Marcia noted, were a strange mixture of exquisite china and ten-cent-store crockery. The knives and forks were of cheap steel, but the spoons—of thin silver, with an "M” monogram—hinted of the lost splendor of a bygone era.
Now, in spite of that fifth place already laid, the old crone planked down another plate in front of Marcia. Sidling to the door, she called out, like a screech of rusty hinges:
"Renny! Lollie! Come and eat!”
There was a sound like bare feet running. Marcia braced herself as the boy Renny burst in, spied her, and stopped short, glaring. But apparently hunger overrode his hostility for the moment, for he slid into the chair on Victor’s left. Gran sat at the foot of the table...
They waited. And presently, stealing in with a fawn-like hesitancy, the girl Lollie came. Across from the vacant place she slid into her chair and sat, wide-eyed, staring at Marcia with child-like admiration.
“She’s not a mean lady—she’s a goldenhaired princess, isn’t she, Vic?” she burst out in delight, then turned wistfully to Marcia. "What happened to the jewel? I wanted it so! It was so pretty, all rainbow colors . It... ooh!”
The cry was wrung from her, and a hand flew to her face. Already an angry welt was appearing along her cheek—inflicted by no means that Marcia could see.
Tears welled up in the wide brown eyes. Lollie huddled, silent, in her chair. For a moment she sat there, gulping back tears. Then forlornly she took a piece of corn-pone, a spoonful of rutabaga turnips, and began to eat with quick nervous gestures.
In the table’s center was a lone brandied peach in a compote. Now, spying it, the girl put out an eager hand for the morsel, turning to her older brother.
“Could I... have that?” her lips formed.
Victor nodded, smiled tenderly, and then shoved the compote toward her. Beaming again, child-like, Lollie took the peach on her plate. But, as Marcia watched, she carefully cut off a tiny piece. This fragment she popped into her mouth with relish.
Then, reaching across the table to that vacant place, the girl laid the larger piece on the empty plate. Her brown eyes regarded it longingly for an instant. But, with a faint sigh, she went back to her turnips and corn-pone.
Marcia turned to her host, the question plain in her eyes. His reply was a bitter smile, and a shrug.
"But," Marcia whispered, "surely you don’t actually set a place at the table for... for the—?”
HER words were cut short, for at that moment pandemonium broke loose. A salt-and-pef>per set on the table began to dance madly. Without warning they rose two feet above the tablecloth and dangled there in midair for a split second. Then, with vicious force, they flew at Lol-lie’s head.
The girl ducked as from long practise. But at once a veritable barrage of silverware flew at her. Cups and plates danced, now at one end of the table, now at the other. The compote turned over, spilling peach juice all over the .cloth. Then something rattled in the nearby cupboard, and from that direction another barrage of silverware flew at the cowering Lollie.
Marcia stared, unable to move. Victor and Renny sat like stone images, while Lollie cringed and whimpered in her chair, shielding her head from the weird onslaught. Only old Gran rocked and yelled with mirth, as if the Thing were a puppet show staged for her express enjoyment.
"He’s mad! Ye’ve angered him again, Lollie—he wanted all of the peach!” she cackled, poking a finger at the morsel on the plate. "Ay, he’s a mean one, that poltergeist of yours. Ye’d best give him his own way!”
Sobbing, speechless, the girl slid from her chair and ran out into the rainy dusk. A silver spoon flew against the screen door, seconds behind her—propelled, from beside Marcia’s plate, by no more visible force than the air about her.
Victor Mason pushed back his chair and stood up, his face bleak. The haunted eyes were fixed on Marcia’s white face grimly.
"Well?” he snapped. "You saw it, Miss Trent. That’s the shadow in our house. For three generations we’ve lived like this, plagued by . .’. something that science declares non-existent. We’ve had to stand by and watch three young girls of our family tormented by it every day, unable to help them. I daresay if I should marry, the Tiling would attach itself to my daughter after Lollie’s death. The same with Renny. So... normal life is impossible to us, as you see.
"We’ll just have to go on living like this, shut off from everyone, for my sister’s sake; seeing her suffer, defenseless against its rages and selfish whims... God!” he groaned through clenched teeth. "Do you imagine you can help her, when I’ve given my every waking thought to it?”
The boy Renny stared at them; Marcia could feel his intent eyes on her face. Old Gran had snatched the fragment of peach and was eating it, tittering to herself the while. And outside, like a voice suddenly given this mysterious Tiling they had seen at work, the wind rose with a sound like mocking laughter.
Marcia laid down her piece of corn bread,
her appetite gone. She leaned back in her chair, looking up at Mason.
"First Anne, then Silvia, now Lollie!” he was muttering. "The hell they went through, locked up in the asylum, with a lot of fool doctors picking at them eternally! Then they’d 'get better.’ Those fools! Yapping about stigmata and hallucinations! You see, few strangers have ever seen the poltergeist perform, as it did tonight, Miss Trent. So the psychiatrists at the institution insisted it was only a hallucination, accompanied by stigmatic neuropathy. We could never convince them there was more to it than just the stigmata. So they’d send our girls home again—'cured’! And the poltergeist would start all over again. You see,” he gestured wearily, "it’s just a choice of Lollie’s being miserable, locked in a cell, or fairly contented living here with us... and It. There’s no cure... because it’s not a disease, Miss Trent. It’s a... a living demon.”
Sleet hissed against the panes. Marcia shivered, but her eyes were narrowed with thought. Suddenly they gave Mason a keen look.
"Tell me,” she demanded. "Were any of your women ancestors haunted by a poltergeist before your great-aunt Anne?”
VICTOR MASON shook his head. "No, it started with Anne—Grandpa’s and Great-uncle Aubrey’s young sister. Then there was Dad’s sister, Silvia. And now it’s Lollie. I know now that it will never leave us, so long as there’s a young girl with Mason blood in her veins.”
Marcia shoved back her chair and stood up with an effort. A faint, grim smile lit her blue eyes. They were bright with purpose.
"Not if we destroy it,” she drawled. "Doctor Mason, I have a hunch that your Mason poltergeist will leave tonight... and never come back. You see,” she stated calmly, "I believe I know what makes him tick. I... won’t tell you now, but in the morning, just before I leave,” she added mildly. "Perhaps you can trust me not to tell your secret then, because there won’t be any.”
Deliberately she looked at the glowering boy Renny, at the smirking old woman, at the ex-doctor.
Victor Mason stared at her. Then, bitterly, he snorted. "Grandstanding, eh?” he snapped. "Well, that won’t win you your freedom either. Let me warn you, it’s twelve miles to the next farm... and they are friends of mine! I was right about you the first time!” he flared. "You’re a selfish, featherbrained little fool! You don’t care what happens to us or to my sister, so long as you get away from here unharmed! But get that out of your head, Miss Trent. You’re not going to leave this place, and that’s final.”
Marcia’s courage wavered. But her chin jerked up again, blue eyes flashing. "Take me to my room now, please,” she said coldly. “I’m not bluffing, though: I’ve cornered your pet ghost—and he knows it!”
MOUNTING the dusty staircase again, however, her heart sank. The old house was so big and still! From the ceiling a spider dangled unexpectedly in front of her face. And as they reached the upper hall, a lean gray rat slithered into the shadows. Marcia gasped and clung to Victor Mason’s arm, but his smile was derisive.
"You’ll get used to it here,” he drawled. "And you’ll cease to fight after awhile, as we all have.”
He shoved open the door of her room and helped her to the big bed. Darkness was falling, so he lit a smoky oil lamp standing on the highboy. With a shiver Marcia sank down on the bed, sat looking up at Mason’s sardonic face. He misunderstood her expression of fear, and snorted.
"If you’re worried about my... bothering you,” he muttered, "please don’t. From now on, you’re just another sister of mine, held prisoner in this house by something none of us can help. I—”
Marcia laughed aloud, nervously. "Oh, it’s not you I’m worried about, Doctor Mason. I can see you consider me just a nuisance, an unfortunate accident.
The tall man smiled wryly. For a moment his haunted eyes held a wistful expression. "Do I?” he murmured. Then, crisply: "Of course,” he snapped. "Then what are you afraid of?”
Marcia took a deep breath. "I’m afraid for my life,” she blurted. "You sec, I... . I deliberately put myself on the spot down there when I said I knew the secret of your poltergeist. I think I do know what causes it... but we must have proof. So... Doctor Mason, will you take that room across the hall and... and come at once if I scream for help? I have a feeling there’ll be an attempt to murder me tonight!”
Victor Mason squinted at her, and then emitted a short laugh. "Renny, you mean? I rather thought Lollie’s attitude toward you at dinner changed his opinion... but of course,” he jeered, "if you’re afraid of the boy, I’ll play sentry. That is,” he laughed callously, "if I don’t fall asleep. Night watchmen shouldn’t tank up on mountain corn, as I’ve been doing these seven years!”
With a twisted smile, he strode out, closing the bedroom door behind him. Marcia huddled in the big bed, wrapped in the single quilt, and sat listening tensely for a long time. The storm had subsided, but rain dripping from the eaves had the sound of stealthy footfalls. Her nerves crisped at every creak of old wails and the skittering of rats in the attic.
Then exhaustion bore down on her. Her eyes closed, jerked open, closed again...
She awoke with a sick feeling of not knowing where she was. The big room was gloomy and full of shadows that writhed and danced when a gust of wind reached the oil lamp. Marcia blinked, rubbed her eyes... and her breath caught in her throat as the tiny sound that had waked her came again.
The doorknob was turning slowly. Now, as she stared, the door swung softly open. Renny Mason, his boyish face contorted, sidled into the room. And the lamplight gleamed on something gripped in his childish fist... a long-bladed cane-knife.
LYING on her back, Marcia steeled her-self not to move, but lay watching with half-closed eyes. She bunched her muscles for a leap as the boy tiptoed nearer and nearer the bed. Now he stood glaring down at her, knife poised...
But the ugly weapon did not strike. Renny’s chin quivered suddenly. His arm lowered. With a sob of defiance he faced the door. In the hallway a shadow moved, hissed urgently.
"I can’t! I can’t!” the boy whimpered. "She d-doesn’t look like a mean lady! She—”
The door swung wider. Marcia almost cried out as the old crone, Gran, scuttled into the room. Her wizened face was a mask of hate and cruelty.
"Kill her! Cut her throat, you coward!” she rasped. "You want her to tell everyone and have them come for Lollie? Eh? Where she'll be locked in a dark cell, and never see daylight? Where they’ll torture her and starve her? Kill that spying little fool, then, and shut her mouth! Kill her, sonny!”
The boy hesitated, turned back to the bed, knife raised. Then, with a dry sob, he flung the weapon to the carpet and cowered against the bed.
"I won’t! I won’t kill her!” he gulped, trembling. "She wouldn’t hurt Lollie! I... I like her. And she gave Lollie a pretty jewel, only the poltergeist took it and gave it to you.... I won’t kill her! I’m sorry I tried to shoot her!”
Marcia lay, frozen, watching the old woman. The mummy face was hideous now, quivering with fury.
"Disobey me, will ye?” she snarled. "All right, young mister! Ye'll be sorry for it, that ye will!”
Suddenly the beady eyes seemed to glow like live coals. The old hag tensed—staring, Marcia saw, not at Renny but at the fallen knife...
Without warning, the weapon rose into the air, as though caught by a gust of wind. Up it went, with the old woman’s eyes fixed on it. Ceiling-high, it poised, dangling above Marcia’s unprotected body on the bed.
The knife fell—with a swifter motion than was natural to any law of gravity. But at the same instant, Marcia screamed and threw her body sidewise. The pain that it caused her sprained ankle was excruciating, but it saved her life.
Hilt-deep, the cane knife stuck up in the mattress where her stomach had been the instant before.
And Victor Mason, blinking bloodshot eyes, stumbled into the room.
"Vh-what’s going on?” he muttered sleepily, and spied the knife. His eyes widened. Renny! Boy, you didn’t... you couldn’t!”
&
nbsp; MTARCIA steadied herself with great effort, swung her feet to the floor, grimacing with pain. "No, Doctor Mason,” she managed. "He... didn’t do it. The knife was dropped from the ceiling, by no visible hand. The poltergeist again. But... where’s your sister?”
"Why,” Mason blurted, "she’s locked in her room downstairs. We always lock her in at night. Seems to make her feel safer. But... the poltergeist? It’s never thrown things before without Lollie in the room.”
Marcia shook her head, bewildered. Her eyes traveled from Doctor Mason to the sobbing Renny. They flickered to old Gran, crouched by the door, mouthing obscenities.
"Then it... isn’t Lollie who causes it,” the girl whispered. "It isn’t you, Doctor Mason—or you, Renny. So... it must be... it’s got to be—”
She broke off with a gasp of certainty, for the old hag had recoiled as though she had been struck. The wrinkled lips writhed. The mummy hands lifted with a jerk, clawlike fingers pointing at Marcia in the manner of a hypnotist.
And a dozen small objects abruptly hurtled through the air—a comb from the dresser, a bud vase from the table, Marcia’s compact.
From all over the room, as though blown by an unfelt wind, the eery missiles flew straight at Marcia’s head. She cowered, trying to shield her face. A small Godey’s print, wrenched from the wall, struck her forehead, and she cried out. Gran shrieked with laughter.
"You! I’ll fix ye, good and proper! Ye meddlin’ little fool!” the old woman snarled. “See that? There’s precious few can do it! See? See?”
Half in Shadow Page 17
