by Byars, Betsy
Herculeah paused, half hoping to see someone peering at her through holes in the old man’s eyes.
Oh, well, she told herself, it was too much to hope for.
She was turning to go when something about the twins caught her eye. The twins were dressed alike—in middy blouses—but there was something about the blouse of the smaller twin.
She bent closer. She rubbed her fingers over the painting. The figure of the smaller twin had been damaged in some way. It had been repaired, but not by the same artist who had done the original picture. Strange.
Strange, too, about Mr. Hunt’s choosing the book. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she would have to find out.
With a shiver of anticipation, she continued down the stairs.
3
HAUNT HOUSE
“I thought you were never coming out,” Meat said. He got up from the steps and brushed off the back of his jeans.
Herculeah glanced at her watch. “Five o’clock. Right on time.”
“I thought something had happened to you,” he confessed. “I thought you were never coming out.”
“Oh, Meat, that’s silly. Just because you thought you saw me get stabbed that one time, now you think you have to protect me.”
“It’s the kind of house where things like that happen,” he explained. “A person goes in and they never come out.”
“You’ve listened to too many ghost stories.”
“I have never trusted a house that has—well ... that has a face,” he finished in a rush.
“A face?”
“Yeah. That huge door is the mouth, and those windows seem to be eyes looking at us.”
“You know what this reminds me of? The time we went to the amusement park and you wouldn’t go in the funhouse because the front was like a clown face, and you were afraid to walk in his mouth.”
“I was not afraid. I just prefer doors that look like doors.” He decided to change the subject. “So, tell me everything.”
“Well,” Herculeah said, “first the nurse and I walked upstairs, and, Meat”—she lowered her voice—“eyes watched me from a portrait every step of the way.”
“Get outta here,” Meat said. He was proud that he hadn’t sounded as if he believed her, but then he spoiled it by adding, “They didn’t really, did they?”
“No, they didn’t.”
Meat said, “Let’s go.”
“What’s your hurry?”
He glanced up at the house. With the sun setting behind it, the house cast deep shadows over the ground. A dense area of woods circled the house and seemed to be reaching for whoever was unfortunate enough to step off the drive.
Meat’s first impression of the place had made him shudder. If he had not been with Herculeah, he would have turned and run for his life, but she had been beside him, giving him the history of the house.
“It was built over a hundred years ago by old Mr. Hunt, Lionus Hunt. See, Meat, Lionus Hunt had been like a field hand on this big estate in England, and when he got over here and struck it rich, he built the exact same house, only he’d never been inside the house so he had to make up the rooms. They’re all crazy.”
Meat didn’t doubt that.
“And from the first day, Meat, the house was struck by tragedy.”
Meat didn’t doubt that, either.
As Meat had gotten closer, he had seen the tower. He had known there would be one. Herculeah had told him that and had said, “Guess what it’s called.”
“I can’t.”
“Shivers Tower.”
Well, it made him shiver, all right.
“But the tower’s been locked up,” she had said, “because there was some terrible tragedy there. My mom claims she doesn’t know what the tragedy was, but I’m going to find out. And, Meat, there’s supposed to be money hidden somewhere in the house. Old man Hunt didn’t trust banks so all the millions and millions are in the walls or the secret room or the tower.”
“Can we change the subject?” Meat asked.
“Yes, but guess what happened today?” Herculeah said as they started for home down the long drive.
“What?”
“When I was reading to Mr. Hunt—”
Something cold seemed to touch Meat’s neck, and he glanced over his shoulder. He gasped with fright.
In one of the upstairs windows, a face was framed, a face in a tangle of wild hair. The eyes stared down at him with a look of such wildness that it froze his blood.
He stopped. He couldn’t move. He closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Herculeah asked. She had continued on a few steps and now turned to look at him.
“A face,” he managed to say.
“What face?”
“In the window.”
As he spoke, he saw the face again in his mind, and he felt the image was there permanently, the way looking at the sun can leave the eye scarred with the image.
“Which window?”
He pointed a trembling finger.
Herculeah shaded her eyes from the setting sun. “I don’t see anything.”
He forced himself to look. Of course there was nothing there now.
“It was a face—I don’t know how to describe it—an evil face. There was a lot of wild hair—”
“Like mine?” she asked, grinning and fluffing her hair.
Herculeah wouldn’t be serious. “No. No! This was hair that hadn’t been combed in years—maybe never—and the face, well, it was like, like a bird of prey, and I was the prey. And the fingers were like talons and—”
“You saw the hands, too?”
“No, but those were the kind of terrible hands that would go with the face...”
Herculeah smiled.
“It really isn’t amusing,” Meat said.
“I know. I was smiling at myself. It’s just that this is the kind of house that makes you think you see things, makes you think you hear things. When I was reading about the girl going up the tower steps, I actually imaged I was the girl and—”
“This wasn’t my imagination.”
“All right.” She looked thoughtful. “I think Mr. Hunt does have a couple of sisters. I don’t even know if one of them lives in this house, but if she does, maybe that was who you saw.”
“What I saw is more like it. That face might not even have been human.”
She looked at him closely. His face was as pale as if he had seen a ghost.
“Let’s go home.”
“Gladly.”
They walked through the open gates. On either gate, the figure of a lion was worked into the wrought iron. One paw was raised as if, Meat thought, to menace visitors as they passed through.
“And the owner, Lionus Hunt,” Herculeah said, speaking as if she were reading from a guide book, “had these gates made in his likeness to guard the house. He wanted visitors to know the house was his and that they entered at their own peril.”
“Did you read that somewhere?”
“No, just made it up.”
“Well, if he really wanted to menace people,” Meat said, “he could have used that old woman’s face.”
4
MAN OR BEAST
“Let me,” Meat said, reaching for the doorbell. Over his shoulder he said, “I hate this doorbell. It’s like the ding-dong of doom.”
It was the next day, and Meat had walked Herculeah to Hunt House for her second reading of The Terror in Black Tower.
It was one of those old-timey doorbells that had to be turned, and Meat gave it a manly twist. From deep within the house came the ding-dong.
They heard heavy footsteps. “It’s a new nurse today,” Herculeah said. “I think her name’s Miss—”
The door opened then, stopping Herculeah’s sentence. Herculeah and Meat looked up. The smiles on their faces faded.
Nurse Wegman was big. Meat had seen bodies like that on World Class Wrestling. She was not as big as his father, of course. Few people were. After all, his dad was Macho Ma
n, a championship wrestler. Just the thought of his dad brought back the picture of him entering the ring, the crowd chanting, “Macho,
Macho, Macho Man.” He could hear the music, feel the pride, the—
Meat’s pleasant picture was shattered by one harsh word from the nurse. “Yes?”
“I’m Herculeah Jones.”
Nurse Wegman said another word. “So?”
“Didn’t anybody tell you? I read to Mr. Hunt every afternoon at four o’clock. It’s four now.” She lifted her arm to display her watch.
Meat thought Nurse Wegman looked as if she didn’t trust Herculeah, so he came immediately to his friend’s defense. “It’s all right, Nurse. Her mom’s a private investigator. She works for Mr. Hunt.”
That seemed to help Nurse Wegman make up her mind. “You’d better come in.”
Herculeah went inside, and Meat said, “I’ll wait out here in case you need me.”
“You aren’t coming in?” Nurse Wegman asked.
“No, sir.”
Meat turned away quickly, his face red with embarrassment. He hoped neither Miss Wegman nor Herculeah had heard that “sir.”
Inside, Herculeah followed Nurse Wegman up the stairs. “Your mother is a private detective?” the nurse asked.
“Yes.”
“What, exactly, is she investigating?”
“I don’t know. She doesn’t confide in me.”
“I was only asking because I’ve heard rumors about this place. People seem to think it’s kind of spooky.” Her voice seemed to deepen. “I’ve even heard there’s money hidden in here. Have you heard that?”
“Yes, I heard the Hunts didn’t believe in banks.”
“Are there any rumors where it might be hidden?”
“Not that I’ve heard. It could be anywhere.”
“And this is a big house.”
“Yes.” Herculeah watched Miss Wegman’s broad back, the ponytail that swung between her shoulder blades. At least, she thought, this nurse was big enough to take care of an invalid. “The book I’m reading to Mr. Hunt is The Terror in Black Tower, and this house even has a black tower, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I noticed.”
Nurse Wegman opened the door to Mr. Hunt’s bedroom. “I’ll be around if you need me.”
Herculeah approached the bed. “Hi,” she told Mr. Hunt, “it’s me again—Herculeah. Do you feel like hearing some more about the girl in the tower?”
For a moment Mr. Hunt didn’t seem to recognize her. His eyes weren’t as bright as yesterday.
“Do you want me to read?”
Three blinks.
What did that mean? Herculeah wondered. One blink meant “yes”; two meant “no.” Three meant what?
“Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Hunt?”
One blink. Yes.
“Is it about the book?”
No.
She had a sudden insight and she asked, “Is it about Nurse Wegman?”
Yes.
“Is she—?”
From the doorway Nurse Wegman said, “If you came to read, read!” It was a command.
“I’d better read,” Herculeah said. “Don’t you think?”
Yes.
“And I’ll be sitting right out here to make sure everything’s” —Nurse Wegman paused as if trying to find the right words—“all right.”
Herculeah picked up the book, opened it, and glanced down at the page.
“Ah, yes,” she said. Herculeah was smiling, but there was a false cheer in her voice. “The girl is still on the stairs. You know, people have climbed Everest in the time it’s taken this girl to get to the top of the tower.”
Although the man on the bed could not move or speak, he seemed on occasion to send off signals—brain waves, maybe. At any rate, sometimes Herculeah seemed to know what he was thinking. Maybe, as the nurse suggested yesterday, Mr. Hunt had developed special powers.
“Yes,” she agreed, “that’s true. People want to get to the top of Everest, and this girl definitely does not want to get to the top of the tower.” She lifted the book to the light. “But I do admit I wish she’d hurry up.” She began to read.
She took two more steps. The noise above her was unlike anything she had heard before. It was not a human sound, and it was not the sound of an animal—at least not any animal she had ever heard before.
Herculeah glanced up at the man on the bed. She grinned. “Man or beast?” she asked, trying to turn his attention to the book.
And the silent answer that seemed to come from the man on the bed was, “Beast.”
5
A PREMONITION
“You’re awfully quiet,” Meat said.
He and Herculeah had left the grounds of Hunt House and were entering their own neighborhood. Now, in familiar surroundings, seeing familiar signs—BERNIE HOLDEN:
ACCOUNTANT, BESSIE FLOWER: ALTERATIONS, CAKES BY CHERI,
ONE-DAY DENTURES—Meat felt he was capable of holding an intelligent conversation.
“I’m thinking,” she said.
“About the book? Is it getting better?”
“The book couldn’t get any better. It started strong and scary. That’s my kind of book.”
Meat glanced at her quickly. “But why would you choose a book like that to read to someone who’s sick?”
“I didn’t have any choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Not this time. The book was chosen for me. Mr. Hunt picked it out himself.”
“How could he? I thought he could only blink.”
“The nurse—this was the other nurse, the one I liked, not Nurse Wegman—brought in hundreds of books, and he blinked at this one.”
“I wonder why.”
“Who knows. I tried to figure it out. It could be that he read the book a long time ago when he was a boy. And—this just occurred to me—in the book, there’s somebody up in the tower, a prisoner maybe, and since Mr. Hunt probably feels like a prisoner himself ... he’s identifying with the prisoner.”
“Yes, but you’d think, if he does feel like a prisoner, he’d want to hear a story about people outside doing things—climbing mountains and forging streams, looking for buried treasure.”
“Or maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “he’s trying to warn us about the tower. The nurse said she’d had patients in Mr. Hunt’s condition who got premonitions about the future. I hope that’s not the case, because something terrible is going to happen and—”
She broke off and lifted her head. “That’s strange,” she said.
They were now at the front steps of Herculeah’s house. Her face was lifted to the window.
“What?”
“The phone.”
“What about it?”
“It’s ringing.”
“What’s strange about that?” Meat asked. “That’s what phones do.”
Herculeah’s face had that serious look, so he changed his question. “Why do you think it’s strange?”
“Look at my hair.”
“It’s frizzling,” he said.
“Yes! Exactly! As soon as I heard the phone ringing, my hair started doing this.”
“The phone’s stopped ringing now,” Meat said. “Your hair can go back to normal.”
Herculeah didn’t answer. It was as if she were listening to something happening inside the house. Meat didn’t hear a thing.
“Your mom probably answered,” he said.
“Mom’s not home.”
“Then someone’s leaving a message.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. The message is for me.”
“You don’t know that.”
Herculeah reached for the banister and started quickly up the steps.
Meat followed. “This is what I don’t get,” he said to her back. “Your hair is frizzling, which means there’s danger, and here you are hurrying into the house. If there’s danger, why would you go to meet it?”
She turned and looked a
t him. Her gray eyes were dark with concern. “Because I might not be the one in danger. Someone may need me.”
She unlocked the door and went inside, leaving Meat alone on the steps.
Well, he wasn’t going inside. He’d never been foolish enough to rush to meet danger. Anyway, he knew Herculeah would tell him about it. She was very generous about sharing her danger.
He glanced across the street at his house. He could go home, but there wouldn’t be anything to do there. He sat down on the steps.
Inside, Herculeah stood in the hallway for a moment. She listened. Someone was leaving a message on her mother’s office answering machine.
The voice was old and shaky, but Herculeah could make out the message. Her blood froze.
“Meat!”
There was such urgency in her voice that Meat couldn’t help himself. He jumped up and went to meet the danger, too.
When he entered the living room, he saw that Herculeah was standing by her mother’s desk. She was bending over the answering machine. “You have to hear this,” she said.
Meat had the childish urge to put his fingers in his ears, but he resisted.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it very wrong, medium wrong or”—he paused hopefully—“just some little thing?” He had asked Herculeah this question before, and he knew how she would answer. “It’s very wrong, isn’t it?”
“Dead wrong.”
6
THE WARNING
Meat moved closer to the desk.
“Listen,” Herculeah said. With quick, practiced motions, she rewound the message and played it. An old shaky voice came from the machine.
“—s a murderer. Stay away from the—”
“You must not have rewound it all the way. Try it again.”
She rewound the tape and replayed it.
Again the old voice said, “—s a murderer. Stay away from the—”
Well, Meat thought, maybe he couldn’t begin the message for the old caller, but he sure could end it.
In the silence that followed, he finished the sentence. “Tower.”
