The moonlight was still strong, the wind still pushing futilely at the panes.
There had been four cars in the drive when he'd pulled up; there were only four cars now, his still the last. In the shimmering cold reflection of the room behind him he could see the Drummonds, Child, and Longwood. Who had left? The man with the dustrag? It was hard to credit—the four cars he had seen were vintage and expensive; a man who spent his autumn evenings keeping them clean would hardly own one himself.
Longwood laughed at something Mrs. Drummond said and slapped a hand against the table. Martin turned quickly, inexplicably annoyed at the sound. It was too much, he thought, and set the wine glass down on the sill. The whole thing was ridiculous. He should have kept on going, north to Boston and whatever job he could find. He didn't need to humiliate himself by waiting around for spooks to knock on wood or toot rasping horns.
And that, he suddenly understood, was exactly what he was doing to himself. An act of self-abasement because the whole of his life until now had been littered with the kind of small gnawing failures he had always laughed at in others. His marriages, his abortive novels, his attempts at windmill-tilting in politics and finance. For a moment, just a moment, he supposed that he really wasn't all that great a failure, that he only tended to magnify his setbacks because his goals were so high.
But the moment passed, and he was angry again.
He looked across the large room, searching for Drummond, had a hand lifted to summon him for the parting when a narrow door set in the far corner opened, and a woman entered.
The others fell muttering into a respectful silence.
At last, Martin thought; the medium arrives.
She was a full head taller than he, her parted-in-the-center hair the black of a winter's crisp night—it settled in more waves than seemed possible onto her shoulders, spilled down her back and chest in shadowed cascades. She wore a simple Jong-sleeved white blouse that hovered close to grey, a matching skirt that reached just below the knee. Deep blue slippers on her feet. A blue satin scarf tied loosely around her throat.
Drummond seemed to be blushing as he approached her, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips.
It was almost, Martin thought, as if the man expected to be scolded.
Then Dorothy fluttered a gesture toward Martin. “Look who's here, Elizabeth! It's Mr. Worthy!"
Elizabeth circled the table with long assured strides, and smiled at him. "Mr. Worthy," she said, a slight nodding as she accepted his hand. "I hope my friends haven't been talking your ear off. They have a tendency to do that once in a while." Though the tone was light, the rebuke was there, and he saw Child scowling as he headed for the sideboard. "But there's no harm done, is there. At least I hope not. I tell you what, Martin—may I call you Martin?— why don't we leave these people for a few minutes and you can ask all the questions you want. I'm sure they won't mind."
Martin didn't care if they minded or not. The eyes that locked to his as she settled her hand on his arm were deeply green, large, and blatant invitations to accept her confidence. He smiled weakly at the others and allowed himself to be led from the room, turning left in the foyer and down a narrow corridor that crouched beside the staircase. Here there was no light; here was the faint tang of must, luxuriant age, the type of acquiescence to age he imagined was instilled in the great houses of Europe.
Their footsteps were soft on the uncovered flooring.
Elizabeth's breathing the only sound he cared to hear.
He could feel her hand through his jacket, a pressure that wound him around a corner, through a smaller and darker room, to a pair of open French doors and onto a marble veranda.
The wind was gone, the moon less swollen, and the trees at the back of the sprawling tended yard had merged into a serrated silhouette pricked only by the stars.
"They really are dears," Elizabeth said, leaning lightly against him as they watched the night deepening. "But they really do tend to be overenthusiastic sometimes. In a way... well, I suppose it's something like fear. Nobody likes to think about the end, isn't that right? Some people exercise until they keel over, thinking they can become immortal if they take the right vitamins. Others, like Kenneth and Zachery, turn so hard to religion that their knees get scars, if you know what I mean/' She sniffed, as though testing the air, then put her left hand to her cheek and laughed quietly. "Listen to me, Martin. Honestly, you'd think I had some kind of degree from Harvard or something."
She looked down at him, smiling, and he felt himself leaning closer. A kiss, he thought. Good God, just one lousy kiss.
"But you want to know about the stance, don't you."
No, he tried to tell her with his eyes; I don't give a damn about stances. Just tell me how much you've taken from these people, and how much of it you'll let me share.
The thought didn't shock him. He had met women before who had auras of power and auras of lust—it was the magnetism of self- confidence he usually found easy to divert. But Elizabeth was different. He almost frowned in the attempt to find the words to suit the feeling, and all he could come up with was... the woman was different.
She turned to him suddenly and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me something," she said, "are you disappointed that I'm not dressed like a gypsy?" She laughed, dropped her hand, and looked up at the moon. "A lot of them are, you know. And in the beginning we thought it would be fun to give them what they wanted. You know what I mean—the unlighted room, the howling wind, large earrings and odd-looking jewelry... everything we could think of. The problem was, they still thought it was all a fake.
"And it isn't, Martin. Not a bit of it is fake. You can poke and snoop all you want, and you won't find a single secret passage, no electronics, no assistants hiding in cupboards."
She clapped her hands suddenly, and he started, realizing how he'd allowed himself to feel the mesmerizing pull of that soft and low voice. He felt silly. He felt she thought him silly. He wished again that he'd skipped over the impulse and left the Station as he'd planned.
"The stance," she said then. "I imagine you expected us to sit around the table and hold hands. Then I would fall into a trance and wait for my contact with the spirit world to get in touch. After that, a few questions about the stock market, the dear departed, s0trte startling revelations about your own life, Martin, that you were sure no one knew but you. Is that what you expected?"
In spite of the fear he would anger her, he nodded.
Instead, she smiled, leaned down and kissed his cheek.
"You're wrong," she said softly. "Oh, not about the table-sitting. That part's right. But everything else isn't, not at all what you were thinking. Can you guess, Martin?" She kissed him again. "Go ahead. Guess."
The tone; it was different. Gone was the soothing texture of silk, the underlying urging to suspend his belief and join in the fun. There was mockery now, a daring, a challenge. He stepped back a pace to see her more clearly, puzzled and unsure how he should respond.
"Oh, Martin," she said in exaggerated sorrow.
All right, he thought angrily, it's time to stop playing games.
He shuddered once, as though shaking off the stuporous effects of the sherry, the drive, the self-pity and weariness he'd allowed to infect and slow him. He allowed himself to think. Of the little man brushing the dust from the cars, of the four people at the table, of their knowing his name; of Elizabeth and the way she looked at him now, a stalking without moving, a wariness born of instinct and caution. He suspected she was trying to decide if she'd pushed him too far, that the so-called seance should have begun before he'd had the chance to question. Now it was too late. The directionless irritation he'd been nurturing all evening found focus, and nothing she or her cohorts could show him would blind him to the fakery he would expose and see in print.
"Oh, Martin." Her voice lower, and deeper.
He snapped his fingers to give himself sound, then brushed past Her and made his way quickly through the dark towar
d the front. It would be easy enough to check through the Station, to find out how many others had come up here to be bilked. It had to be quite a few, or a carefully chosen handful who had money to squander.
He reached the corridor and marched toward the front door.
Stopped at the parlor with a hand stroking his chin.
All five of them, of course, would be in on the sham. All five of them complete with utterly convincing tales of how Elizabeth and her powers had brought them release, or fulfillment, or a lasting peace of mind. It would be for money, most likely, though he imagined Arthur Drummond was trapped also by sex.
His hand moved to scratch at the back of his neck. Excitement made him lick at his lips, made him feel as if he were just about floating. He turned toward the parlor. He wondered how it would be if he called their bluff and accused them to their faces. The reactions would be interesting, and there wasn't a one of them he feared if violence erupted.
Then he frowned, was unsure.
The light in the room was dimmer. The Drummonds, Child, and Longwood were standing by the table, behind the chairs they were in when he'd first entered the house. He had to squint to see them clearly, and took a step closer when he saw what he thought was dust on the table.
Dust on the table... dust on the cars.
"Oh, Martin." Deeper, and growling.
Part of the trickery, he told himself quickly. The sherry had been mildly drugged, and Elizabeth had taken him away so they could spread dust on the table, on the carpet, on the walls. So they could change their clothes that in the room's twilight were more now like tatters not even dared to be called rags.
They all smiled, and Longwood beckoned, and the tips of his fingers were not flesh but yellowed bone.
The light brightened for a moment—they had no eyes—then faded to dark—they had no eyes—and he whirled around just as Elizabeth reached toward him—skin taut and tearing, lips smiling and shredding, blouse rustling and rotting. He threw himself backward, felt a knob punch at his hip. He grabbed it, turned it, and flung the door open. Leaped off the stoop and ran down the walk, not bothering to stop at the fourth car in the line, not bothering to scream at the black moth still dusting.
Later, he promised himself as he ran down the hill, he would find out how they did it. For now, however, he had to admit that what they had done was effective—they had lulled him, and frightened him, then driven him from the house because they knew he would expose them.
But it was a good idea, he thought as he neared the trees. It was obvious the stance had been over long before he'd arrived, and they wanted him to think it was he they had summoned, not the ghost of a friend, or an aunt, or a sorely missed spouse.
Because he was still alive, and they were... not quite dead.
Elizabeth had given him the clue if he'd been thinking—nobody likes to think about the end.
So somehow he was supposed to believe they would use him in some horrid way to keep themselves... not dying.
He tripped over a shadow and sprawled in the road, and the burning in his palms felt curiously reassuring.
He stood, swayed, and started running again. The cold air a brace that held rigid his fear, a fear he couldn't shake in spite of his reason.
Tomorrow, of course, it would be different in the sun; and he would come back for his car and search the house if he could. Because Elizabeth had lied when she told him "no electronics," and he wanted to have pictures of whatever gimmicks they'd used.
He slowed.
Tomorrow... in the sun.
He stopped.
He put his hands hard to his hips and bent over slightly, waiting for the air to return to his lungs. He felt stupid and was glad he hadn't brought anyone with him. Foolish because the con he'd been seeking had worked only too well. He looked over his shoulder, and the mansion was dark, the cars in the drive deeper shadows against the night.
There was no sound at all but the rasp of his breathing.
He spat dryly and shook his head, wishing for the first time in months that he hadn't quit smoking. Then, annoyed with himself because he was still playing the mark, he decided there was no reason at all why he shouldn't drive home.
He turned around and scowled.
And the moon was a ghost in the house of night—silent, stained, setting free the shadow that rose in his path, setting free the first sound he'd uttered since his coming.
He screamed.
"Oh... Martin."
TALES FROM HAWTHORNE STREET
***
The Gentle Passing of a Hand
There must have been a hundred kids in Ellie DePaul's backyard, back then on her birthday; everybody from Hawthorne Street it seemed like, and the rest from places I hadn't even heard of. While I was getting dressed that morning I heard Aunt Helen saying to Uncle Steve it was a waste of good money, but I just thought it was plain and simple silly. Ellie had just turned ten, but you'd think she was the stupid Queen of England the way people were fussing over her. It was making me sick to my stomach. I was only ten then, too, but you didn't see people acting that way around me.
Of course, that was then—before I learned about my hand.
The way Ellie's mother set it up, we had to sit on those little wooden chairs that fold up when you're done with them, and I had to sit on the end in the back row because of my leg that I had to keep straight sort of. I could have adjusted the brace, I guess, but I didn't feel like it. Ellie was prancing around in a pink dress and a pink ribbon in her hair, and I almost couldn't stand it she was acting so bad. So I kept the brace tight and kept my leg out, hoping all the time she would prance by and trip over me so her mother would scold her and I could pretend how bad it hurt.
She didn't, though, so I had to be good, even though I would've rather have been back in my room, thinking about. . . things.
Actually, I didn't mind sitting in the back. I could see pretty good, because the yard bunched up into a little hill there before it sloped down to the river, and all the big kids had to sit on the ground in front so the little kids didn't have to stand up. And way down there at the bottom was the Great And Astounding Albert, doing his tricks in a black suit that made him look like he was going to a wedding.
"Nothing up this sleeve," he said, his handlebar mustache making him look like a gorilla, "and nothing up this sleeve." And the next thing you know he had a little bird in his hand or a blown- up balloon or flowers or miles and miles and miles of pretty ribbons and streamers.
Mrs. DePaul and my aunt were sitting on the ground right behind me, and after a while I could hear Ellie's mother whisper, "Oh, dear, do you think he's having a good time?"
And my aunt said, "Sure he is. Why do you say that, Alice?"
"Well, he seems so... so solemn, I guess. Damn, you don't think anybody was teasing him, do you? About, well, you know."
"No, dear, he hasn't been teased, believe me." And she sighed like she does when Uncle Steve tickles her in the hall. "He's just studying, that's all."
I didn't turn around, but my aunt was right. Right then, right there in the backyard with the hundred kids and the million trees and all the cake and ice cream in the whole world sitting there on the card table, I decided I wanted to be a magician when I grew up. I couldn't play ball or anything like that because of my leg, and my mother always told me that the best person you could be was the person who was nice to other people all the time. Well, the Great And Astounding Albert must have been a nice person, because he was making us all laugh and clap, and he was giving out pretty things and winking at the girls, so I spent the whole time trying to see how he did it.
Nothing up this sleeve, and nothing up this sleeve.
Jay, I told myself then, you could really do that if you tried, you really could.
So the minute Aunt Helen took me home and supper was over, I went into my room and I practiced. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to figure out how the Great And Astounding Albert got all those birds and ribbons and things from his
sleeve. It had to be a trick, though, because there's no such thing as magic, and when I couldn't do it I almost cried. I almost gave up. But I didn't. When you have a leg like mine and you can't be like other people, you don't give up just because you want to cry. You try and try again, just like my mother told me. Try and try again*
So I did.
I took spoons from the kitchen and sticks from the yard, and I put them up my sleeve and tried to make them drop into my hand just like the magic man did. It never worked. And by the time two weeks was gone I was moping around the house and not eating and just making myself miserable. That was silly, I know, and I should have gone to Uncle Steve right away, but I wasn't real used to him yet.
See, it was raining one night, and my mother and father and my three sisters and me, we were coming home from the restaurant where we always go when something good happens at my father's store. Then all of a sudden there was this tree and a lot of light that hurt my eyes and a lot of darkness that hurt me, too. And the next thing I knew I was in this funny-smelling bed in this funny-smelling room, and lots of people in white were standing around, and Helen and Steve were there in the corner.
Helen was crying. Steve wasn't smiling.
They told me mother and father and Marlene and Deirdre and Ginny had passed away in the accident. That means they were dead. I knew that, and it hurt for a long time. It still does, at night, when my covers need tucking in and Aunt Helen tries to do it but she doesn't do it the way my mother used to do it and . . . well, it just isn't the same. I know that because I heard Uncle Steve say that one night when I was supposed to be asleep instead of going to the bathroom.
"Damnit, Helen, I feel sorry for the boy, you know I do, and Frank was my brother, for God's sake, so I have an obligation. But that still doesn't change the fact that you and I hadn't planned on children, and suddenly we've got one ten years old, and a cripple at that. I mean, it just isn't fair."
Tales from the Nightside Page 8
