The Dark on the Other Side

by Barbara Michaels

  The next word was indecipherable; which, Michael thought, with a reminiscent grin, was probably just as well. His father’s collection of epithets and expletives were drawn from the riper Restoration dramatists; some of them had curled his hair even in his supercilious high school days.

  As he read on, his sentimental nostalgia increased; but so did his bewilderment. There were eight letters in all. One of them didn’t even mention Randolph, the others contained more references to his father’s pet student-what was the kid’s name?-Al Something-than to Gordon. Poor old Dad must have been losing his grip, Michael thought. Gordon was only a few years away from his great book; according to the publisher’s blurb, parts of it had actually been written while he was in college. If his father hadn’t spotted a talent of that magnitude…

  The last letter was no more informative, but it was something of a shocker. His father’s handwriting was shakier than usual, and his sentences were so garbled by emotion as to be relatively incoherent in parts. The feeble idiocy of the campus Hellfire Club had exploded into scandal and disaster; one student was dead as a result of an occult experiment, which his father’s Victorian inhibitions had kept him from describing in detail. And that student was the boy for whom he had had such hopes-Alfred Green.

  Large as the affair had been in the minuscule world of the university, it hadn’t made much of a splash in the press. Michael remembered hearing something about it, but the influential board of trustees had succeeded in suppressing the details. Still, reading between the lines, it must have been a nasty business. The word was his father’s. It kept recurring, through the scribbled agitation of the lines: nasty, foul, disgusting. It would seem that way to him, Michael thought. Then, at the end of the letter, came a hasty postscript.

  “Young Randolph came by this evening, to express his regrets. Alfred was one of his closest friends. It was kind of the boy, and perceptive, to know that this has hurt me worse than an ordinary scandal would have done. Perhaps I haven’t been fair to him. Antipathy is an odd thing.”

  Michael sat staring at the last page for a long time, while the cigarette burned down between his lax fingers and his second cup of coffee grew cold. He felt completely deflated. He had expected a complete, startling answer to the enigma that had begun as a simple problem of character, and which had now taken on such ominous outlines. But there was no answer in these letters, only new questions. In the back of his mind the mental call still pulled, confusing what wits he had left.

  It was not until he was trudging through a blue twilight on his way to the place where he had left the car that he realized what the letters had told him. Another death. Randolph ’s triumphant career seemed to be unnecessarily littered with corpses.

  He forgot this new piece of the puzzle, which was merely an addition to his list rather than a clue as to why the list existed, as he drove through the streets of the village near Randolph ’s estate. The street lights had come on and the houses looked peaceful and homey, with lights twinkling through the gathering darkness. The temperature had dropped, though; the wind that tossed the boughs was sharp. He rolled up the car window.

  He hit a snag when he turned into the curving streets of the suburb. He had already observed that the inhabitants of Brentwood liked their privacy. There were no quaint mailboxes with names on them along the curving drives and walled estates. There weren’t many street lights, either. Maybe the rich didn’t need them. They had their own methods of guarding against crime-burglar alarms, dogs, even private guards.

  Nor did Andrea court publicity. Michael found the house at last only because it was at the end of the sole road that was unpaved and unland-scaped. A survival from a simpler past, he thought, jouncing down the rutty lane. If there was a house down here, it was well hidden. Mud squelched under the tires, and he had visions of being thoroughly stuck, at the end of a road that petered out into forest.

  As the thought formed, the road ended. The dark shapes of trees loomed up, and Michael jammed on the brakes, skidding. He saw the gate, and knew that he had arrived.

  It was the sort of gate Andrea might have had constructed to her specifications if she had set up shop as a newly certified witch-wooden, rickety, sagging on rusted hinges. Thick, untrimmed shrubs concealed the path beyond and leaned out over the fence like watchful sentries. The house beyond was visible only as a crazy shape of roofs and chimneys that cut off a section of starry sky. There was no light, and no sign of human life.

  Shapes other than man-made cut off the starlight. Half the sky was curtained by clouds. The wind lifted Michael’s hair from his forehead and turned the boughs of the tall shrubs into armed appendages, which thrust out in abrupt challenge. The clouds hung heaviest toward the east. As Michael watched, distracted from his search by the eerie movement of the night, a glow of light flickered above the tops of the pines, like the ghost of a sick sunset. It was followed by a slow, far-off roll of thunder.

  Practical considerations intruded on the fascination of the approaching storm. This trek might turn out to be more disastrous than a plain old wild-goose chase. The road was already gluey with mud; another heavy rain could maroon him in this abandoned lane. He had better check the house and get out.

  The mental call that had brought him a hundred miles was gone.

  When it had left-if it had ever existed, save in his imagination-he could not remember. But its absence left him feeling blind or deaf, bereft of a sense that had, even in so short a time, become something he depended on as uncritically as he accepted the use of his eyes. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours he examined his activities in the cold light of reason, and found them folly. Only his inborn stubbornness brought his hand to the latch of the gate.

  It screeched rustily. He had half expected that it would, but the sound, shattering the quiet night, made him jump. As he took a tentative step forward, something streaked across the path in front of him. He grabbed instinctively at the branch of the shrub, stabbed his thumb on something sharp, and let out a yell. The shrub had thorns.

  The darting streak that crossed his path hadn’t triggered any fantasies, though; he knew what it was-a cat, one of the dozen that Andrea was reputed to keep. He wondered where the others were, and what arrangements Andrea made for their comfort while she was off on her frequent trips. Then he realized that all the shrubbery was alive with movement. The action of the wind made the foliage mutter; but there were other sounds. Small, ground-level movements rustled branches and made leaves whisper. He saw something glow into life at the base of a bush near the house-two small round dots of red fire. The cats prowled.

  He went down the path, feeling with feet and extended hands. The clouds had grown heavier; there was no moon, and even the faint starlight became increasingly obscured. He found the house by running into it, literally. By daylight it was probably attractive; there was a low porch, flanked by pillars and draped with vines. He had banged his head on one of the pillars. The roof hung low, almost brushing his head. He made his way to the door and fumbled for a bell or a knocker.

  This was the moment of low ebb. The expedition seemed utterly futile, his mood of the last few hours a wild delusion. The door did not seem to have a bell, and even if he found some means of making his presence known, he did not expect an answer. Then lightning split the sky-nearer now, a thin sword of light instead of a far-off glow. For a split second he saw the details of the door starkly outlined-brass knocker shaped like a frog’s head, small leaded window, even the splinters in the wooden panels where impatient cats had demanded entry. Then the light vanished, leaving his eyes blinded. But his muscles remembered, and his hand found the knocker.

  The damn thing made a sound like a bass drum. Echoes rolled into the windy night; he heard them mutter and die inside, beyond the door. Then the panels moved.

  The inside of the house was darker than the night. He saw only the pale oval of her face, suspended in blackness. He never doubted her identity, even though she seemed smaller than he remembered
, as small as a child, as small as a bent old woman.

  “I knew it was you,” she said, in a breathy whisper.

  Michael nodded, then realized that she could see no more of him than he could see of her.

  “I figured you’d be here.”

  “Why didn’t you come before?”

  “It wasn’t until last night that I got your-” Michael stopped; it was hard enough to mention his fantastic experience, but the phrase he had been about to use reduced it to inanity, as if the thing he had received had been a telegram or phone call.

  Then he realized she was not listening. She was looking past him, out into the dark garden.

  He was slower to perceive. He realized first that the wind had died; leaf and bough hung motionless, as if in apprehension of what was coming. He thought, This is going to be one hell of a storm. And he knew the thought for what it was-the desperate defense of the commonplace against a phenomenon it was afraid to admit. For the stillness was abnormal. Linda’s hand gripped his arm, her fingers digging in like claws. At the same instant the silence burst. He recognized the sounds, but they sounded different, here, than they had coming from the back alleys of the city. Cats. The howls and snarls seemed to come from more than a dozen feline throats. The shrubbery was animate with glowing eyes and flying bodies.

  The fury of the cats might have warned him, if he had had time to think. The next flash of lightning came too quickly; it caught him unprepared. The storm was moving in. All the horizon was dark with boiling masses of cloud, and the thunderclap came close on the heels of the light, booming like a cannon’s roar. In the ghastly gray-blue light he saw it. Standing stiff-legged and huge, it might have been only a monstrous image, cut out of basalt or obsidian. But the pricked, listening ears were alive, and so were the eyes, glowing with an inner fire. When the darkness returned, he felt as if every light in the world had failed, and the darkness was worse than the vision itself, because he knew it was still out there, waiting-the black dog.

  Chapter 8

  I

  LINDA KNEW IT WOULD BE THERE. SINCE THE THING first appeared to her, she had developed a special sensitivity; she didn’t have to see it now, to know it was coming. It was a tension in her very bones, like fear, a stench like the foulness of decay. But familiarity did not breed contempt, or acceptance. Every time she saw it, the feeling was worse. She would have stood there, frozen, if Michael had not pushed her into the house and slammed the door.

  Two inches of wood were a frail barrier against the thing in the garden. But it seemed to cut off some of the aura of terror that enveloped it. Only then did she realize the enormous importance of what had happened.

  “You saw it,” she gasped. “Oh, God, oh, God-you saw it!”

  “I saw it.” His voice was queer; she thought that the emotion that made it shake was fear, until he went on, “God forgive me. I thought you were imagining it.”

  He caught her to him, holding her so tightly that breathing was an effort. For a long moment she stood quiescent in his arms, recognizing the impulse for what it was, a desire untouched by ordinary physical passion. She felt it too-the reassurance of contact with another living human body.

  “You’re not afraid,” she murmured.

  “Like hell I’m not,” Michael said promptly. “Linda-what is it?”

  “You saw it.”

  “Yes, and I know too well that eyesight is a damned unreliable witness. We can’t stand here all night. Are you sure it can’t get into the house?”

  “I’m not sure what it can do.”

  “That’s comforting. Aren’t there any lights in this hole? I’d be happier if I could see what was coming at me. I think.”

  “Of course there are lights. I was afraid to use them, before.”

  “We’ll risk it now.”

  As she switched the lights on, Michael turned from the door. He had been peering out through the small window, and he answered her question before she could voice it aloud.

  “Nothing there now. I could see clearly during that last big flash.”

  “It’s gone,” she said. “Not-vanished. Withdrawn.”

  “You can feel it? Sense it? Damn the language, it’s inadequate.”

  “I can tell when it’s coming, sometimes. But not long in advance.”

  Michael laughed, a short, explosive sound that held no amusement. The antique wall sconce, which was the sole source of light in the hall, held pink bulbs shaped like candle flames-one of Andrea’s cuter affectations. The rosy light gave Michael’s cheeks a healthy flush, but she knew, by the shape of the lines around his mouth, that he was badly shaken.

  “We’re talking about it as if it were susceptible to natural laws,” he muttered. “Damn it, I’m still not ready to admit that it isn’t. It was the shock of seeing it like that, when I hadn’t…And you’ve been living with that for-how long?”

  “I don’t know… Months.”

  “And you’ve held on to your sanity.”

  “By the width of a fingernail,” she said. “By the breadth of a hair.”

  Separated from her by the width of the hall, Michael did not move; but the steady dark eyes held hers with a look that was as palpable as a touch, and as expressive as a page of print. Linda knew the look; no woman with a single normal instinct could have failed to read it. Her eyes fell before his, and after a moment he spoke in a casual tone.

  “As a companion in a haunted house you’re not very cheering. You look like a little ghost yourself. How long has it been since you’ve had any sleep, or a decent meal? And speaking of food, I’m starved. Is there anything in the house except toadstools and henbane?”

  “Yes, of course. Come out to the kitchen.”

  While she made coffee and scraped together a scanty meal, Michael wandered around the kitchen making casual remarks. This was an interlude of comparative sanity in the midst of madness; both of them recognized its artificiality, just as they recognized the need for a breathing space. But she knew that he looked out the window each time he passed it, and she did not miss the fleeting glance he gave the door. It was bolted and chained; Andrea had left it that way, and she had checked those bolts daily, knowing their inadequacy but knowing, as well, that no precaution could be neglected. Only once did he refer to the thing that loomed large in both their minds.

  “The cats,” he exclaimed, as a tabby-striped tom appeared, demanding sustenance. “How do they get in and out?”

  “One of those pet doors, in the cellar. No,” she said, as he made an involuntary movement of alarm. “It’s too small for anything but a cat. You know how they can compress themselves-like rubber-”

  “Yes, I know,” he said.

  The meal was a poor one-she had already depleted Andrea’s stock of food-but Linda ate ravenously. She hadn’t had much appetite the last few days. Michael watched her with satisfaction, eating little himself. She didn’t blame him; canned lima beans and tuna fish were unappealing unless you were half starved. When she pushed her empty plate away and looked up, she found him braced and ready.

  “Talk to me,” he said. “I don’t know how much time we have.”

  “About-it?” She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “How can I? How do you talk about something that is either supernatural or else a-”

  “Delusion? You still believe that?”

  “At first, when you saw it too, I thought…But Michael, you’ve heard of collective hallucinations.”

  “The fact that you can still admit that possibility is a good indication of your sanity,” Michael said. “I’m willing to admit it myself, but only as one theory among others. Linda, are you sure that damned thing isn’t real? That it isn’t an actual, living dog?”

  “There is no such animal in the neighborhood. Believe me, I made sure.”

  “A wild dog? Even a wolf? It sounds unlikely, I know, but-”

  “Even a wolf can’t live without food. Sooner or later it would rob a poultry yard, or attack a pet animal. It might not be seen, but i
ts presence would certainly be known.”

  “And no one else has seen it?”

  “No…” She found it hard to meet his eyes after that admission, but he seemed undismayed.

  “Not Andrea?”

  “She knows about it,” Linda admitted. “She believes in it. But she’s never seen it.”

  “Odd,” Michael muttered. “That she hasn’t seen it. She believes it’s supernatural, of course.”

  “Of course. But don’t make the obvious mistake about Andrea. For all her superstitions, she has a hard core of common sense. She can believe in various fantastic phenomena, but she doesn’t imagine things. There’s a difference.”

  “I know what you mean. I could believe in flying saucers without too much effort; there has been a certain amount of evidence. But I can’t believe that I saw one land, and a bunch of little green guys get out of it, unless I have a screw loose somewhere.”

  “None of Andrea’s screws are loose. She has some screws in unusual places, though.”

  Michael laughed.

  “Then you and I are the only ones who have seen the dog,” he said. “When did you see it first?”

  “It’s hard to remember exactly… About a year ago, I guess. I remember the occasion very clearly, though.”

  “I can see why you might.”

  “I went for a walk, at twilight. I like that time of day-at least I used to. I wasn’t in a very happy mood. There had been…words, with Gordon. I walked out under the trees, just wandering around. The ground was wet and soggy, but everything smelled so fresh and sweet. The sky was a pale greenish blue, there was a new moon. I went down that avenue of cherry trees. It ends, if you remember, at a fence; there’s a pretty view from that point, out across the pastures.

  “I was leaning on the fence, thinking, when-there it was. I saw it quite distinctly; the light was fading, but it seemed to stand out, as if something shone behind it. I was frightened, but only because it appeared so suddenly, out of nowhere, and because it was a fierce-looking dog and a stranger. Honestly, Michael, I couldn’t be mistaken about that, I really like dogs, I was friends with all the neighbors’ pets… Well, I knew better than to run, but I retreated as quickly as I could. It didn’t follow me. Not until later did I realize that it hadn’t moved, or made a sound, the whole time. It just stood there, looking at me…”