Phantoms

by Jack Cady

  The Barrister has never owned a reputation for vengeance.

  He owns a reputation for being just. Now, though, he smiles, and his smile is not kind. His small and wrinkled face seems as formal as his suit and starched white shirt. His dark tie is held in place with a diamond stickpin. The diamond glitters only a little sharper than the Barrister’ s eyes. "That old saying . . . ‘you can’t take it with you’ . . . Julie tried. What he didn’t count on were other men just like himself."

  The Barrister explains that Julie set up a foundation to administer his great fortune. The mission of the foundation was "To maintain and advance the aims of Seven Sisters in perpetuity." As the 20th century rolled past, ambitious men contrived to load the foundation’s board and directorship. They stole the fortune.

  "Not a drop left," the Barrister says with some satisfaction. "Not a dram. In his grave, Julie lies as a pauper."

  "If," Cat says, "he is buried. Because, if one is buried, it pays to be dead."

  It is the second time she has shocked the Barrister. Of course, the Barrister has not been walking our midnight streets. He has not stood in sunrise and sunset.

  "If alive," Cat murmurs, "he would be a desperate, desperate man. If alive, then what’s happening is both theater and war."

  "If alive," the Barrister whispers, "he would be more than a hundred forty years old. Do not make jokes." The Barrister knows full well that no one is joking.

  "You don’t get it," Cat tells the Barrister. "The arts are not simple entertainment. They are life, itself. You don’ t get that, do you?" Cat is angry, though managing to seem only annoyed. She turned to me. "If there’ s a war there’s two sides. What is the other side doing?"

  "I don’t know. The notion never occurred." I know that Cat is going somewhere with this, but it lies beyond comprehension.

  "Find out," Cat tells me, "because what’s alive at Seven Sisters is after us. At least part of it is." Her anger still lives, but is now subdued. "The war is now our war," she says quietly. "It is defensive. Julie is still alive. He is suckling symbolic breasts." To the Barrister she says, "Did you think the arts are male?"

  The Barrister sits confused, as am I. Why this anger?

  "After us?"

  "In dawn and sunset the horrors of this town appear." Cat sounds like a grade school teacher. "There is not a rape, a murder, a disemboweling or a lynching that is not recalled. Those are most of the broken faces we see. That kind of manifestation no doubt happens in other places, places beyond the town. Manifestation probably happens in any place where the past is as dark as hate." She shifts in her chair, pauses, and I can tell that she still controls anger. "Apparitions are all around us. Call them ghosts. Call them history. Makes no difference. But, what happens at night is different."

  "He is after us?" The Barrister, for perhaps the first time in his life, actually sounds fearful. "After us?"

  "Shakespeare had it right." Cat once more muses to herself while ignoring the Barrister. "Storm and winds, thunder and Lear. War."

  "I’ll find out what the other side is doing," I tell her.

  In darkest night spirits may, or may not, endorse my movements. One thing is certain. The wind drops. Night is as still as glass, but like glass, it may shatter. Mist flows away from the forest and the sky. Stars appear like streams of cold fire. In this depth of darkness Seven Sisters sit like hulks thrown on a rocky shore. Candlelight, or lamplight, glows on the fourth floor of Thespia. It is small illumination, but increases during an approach through the forest. Someone, or something, wields light.

  Forte stands at the edge of the semi-circle. It is the oldest of the mansions. Starlight reveals broad and broken steps, and one can only pass up them by use of a flashlight. Covered porches encircle the mansion, and, in olden days, served as a promenade for beautifully coiffed ladies and tailored gents. It is on these porches that an intuition arrives.

  The living have power here. It would be possible to step inside and strike a match. Words from an ancient book seem to echo along the porches, something on the order of "What’s born in fire belongs to fire, so I fear hell’s certain."

  Whispers surround, question, hesitate. Fire is an option, but the whispers wonder to each other, debate.

  On the other hand, one does not casually destroy the past, even those parts that are toad-ugly. At least one does not do so on a whim. It is wrong to destroy without knowing what is being destroyed.

  From the porches, the main doorway leads into a foyer. The foyer leads to the auditorium and long, thrust stage where Gabrielle and her troupe once danced. My flashlight illumes furnishings now turning to dust. Upholstered chairs are pale as mist. Color has left or been stolen. A simple touch on the arm of a chair, and the thing crumbles. Overhead, ormolu roses hang like thin ice as copper alloy turns to dust. The very floors are without color. Missing, even, is any hint of carpet or varnish.

  Drapery fragile as cold breath divides the foyer from the auditorium. And, in the auditorium the mind goes numb.

  On the huge stage a single figure dances, ghostly as mist in dark forest. The stage dwarfs the figure, so that she seems no more than a child. Slow and rhythmic, she moves against paleness. There is no music here, except in her movement which suggests music. It seems, though one cannot swear to it, that as she dances, she weeps.

  And so, it would seem, fire is out of the question.

  After five more nights I am able to report that, with the exception of Thespia, figures inhabit each mansion. I have not yet found the courage to enter Thespia.

  In Muse the figure is dark. It slumps over a desk, quill in hand, but the pen does not move. In Maestro, fingers caress a harp that holds no strings. Gaudens carries the sound of gentle tapping, like chisel and hammer, but the echo says that it is not marble being worked, only brick. Greco is perhaps most fearsome, because figures clothed in Athenian style seem in pursuit of philosophy, and the figures murmur: "Gordian knots of ice cream," and, "When the Jersey-moo arrives the point lies proved", and thus, are the figures insane.

  And, Michelangelo I doubt not, is most bizarre. In all the mansions there has been no life, but Michelangelo hosts a mouse. One walks the galleries where pale walls stand empty, except where an occasional frame still hangs. The frames are stripped of gilt, and are gnawed.

  As one strolls through the galleries, the mouse scurries ahead like a guide telling the story of each empty frame. There is only one mouse. Perhaps it is an incarnation of some sad spirit, condemned to gnaw until Michelangelo falls to dust.

  "Desperation," Cat says, and she talks about Julie. We once more sit in the library and look at mouldering books; and look through windows beyond which Victorian houses lean crazily against the sky. "Madness. What awful, awful hunger."

  The Barrister whispers. "I have lived here all my life. A man ought to be allowed to die where he has lived."

  I listen to the Barrister. Does his mind wander? He was in strong mental control only last week. Is he now senile?

  "I’m beginning to think the same thing," Cat tells him. "It may be half-past time to get the deuce out of town." She turns to me. "Run or stay?"

  "We are duty-bound to see this through." The Barrister still whispers. He does not look well. His small frame, already shrunken, seems like fragile sticks clinging to the inside of his suit. He is only a trellis for clothing. "My energies," he apologizes, "are not what they were."

  Cat and I look at each other, and our looks ask the same question.

  Trust Cat to choose honesty. "You are the first of us to be attacked," she tells the Barrister, and her voice is gentle.

  "You are physically smallest. The thing that was Julie, or maybe is Julie, is running out of options." She again looks through the windows. "There’s nothing left of the original colors out there. Surely those were stolen first."

  Sometimes, even in my great age, I am reckless to the point of stupidity. "I’ll confront him," I tell them.

  "We’ll confront him," Cat turns to me. "You still do
n’t ‘get it.’ I expect you’ll be needing help." To the Barrister she says, "Keep close to home. Rest. One way or other, this is soon over."

  Death is a fearful problem for the young, but people who are truly old do not fear it. We fear other things. I think about this as I wait for Cat. I stand at the edge of the young forest.

  We, who are old, fear the death of our worlds. Each of us has known the world in a particular manner. As we grow old the world gets revised. We, who are old, mourn the passing of ways that sustained us in youth. In my case, I mourn loss of formality and custom and honor. The Barrister, who is admittedly starchy, is one of the last men alive who I truly admire.

  Cat approaches through gathering darkness, and there’s magic in her movements. No one, and certainly not the young, move with such grace. The approaching night seems to fall away like a discarded cloak. She moves through the dusk as a small essence of light.

  "Forte," she says, and leads in that direction. As she moves, whispers from the forest congregate. They no longer question. If anything, the whispers endorse. Mostly, though, they seem excited in ways that only belong to the living. But, a whisper can’t be alive . . . how can a whisper be alive?

  "Do you hear?" I feel like a young kid tagging behind an older sister.

  "Shush," Cat says. She is focused.

  I follow in silence. When we stand in the foyer, dusk lingers in the windows. Sunset seems unwilling to fade. The last time I was here the foyer was viewed by flashlight. In this gray light it stretches long and wide and barren.

  Cat looks at crumbling furnishings and muddy-gray walls. "Tomb of lost dreams." Her voice is quiet. Whispers surround us. On my first visit, the whispers stayed on the porches. Now they have moved inside. "Lost dreams," Cat repeats. "Let’s see if we can find ’em."

  I follow her to the auditorium which has no windows. It is darker, even, than most of our nights. In the darkness gray figures move. They are the same figures that moved black-on-black through streets and forest.

  "It’s been a while," Cat murmurs to herself. She watches the enormous stage where a pale figure dances, ghostly, slow, dancing with its own silent rhythm. "I never was much one to hoof it," Cat whispers, "but since we’re here."

  When she ascends the stage and joins the dancer, pale light trembles on the edge of darkness. If there is music in the air it lives on the edge of hearing. And, if it is music, it is in three-quarter time. One thinks of Mozart.

  The living figure bows, the phantom curtseys. Both the bow and the curtsy are as delicate as music that now reaches to surround, but not touch the dancers.

  "Quick study," Cat says in a soft voice, "I was always a quick study. So show me."

  And they dance, slowly, in classic minuet; Cat learning as she goes. And as they dance the specter no longer weeps, although Cat does. And, she smiles. And dances.

  Gray figures turn luminous. Light attends the stage.

  Whispers become murmurs, and I feel separated from Cat, from the phantoms, and from the luminous shadows. Something is alive here, and beyond my understanding. All around, murmurs speak of form, color, sound.

  ". . . a bit more light . . . blue filter . . . make it soft."

  ". . . that snare drum’s in front, not back of the music. Get it where it belongs . . ."

  The figures on stage gradually meld. What was once a specter fades toward Cat, and it is impossible to tell whether it becomes part of her, or simply disappears. Cat stands on the stage, transfixed like one seeing visions.

  "If those two were trying to impress me," one murmur says, "they’ve done it."

  "The drum should have gone to a deep tom-tom," a second murmur insists. "The snare was too sharp."

  It seems a private discussion held in public, but I do not understand. When Cat speaks it is not as I expected, which is to say, gently.

  "Act two," she says, her voice brisk. "And it’s only a two-acter. Let us proceed." And—by the Lord Harry she giggles. To me, she says, "If you still don’t get it, watch what happens next."

  What happens next is that we leave Forte accompanied by murmurs from luminous shadows. In growing night the shadows gain color. I feel sure that they will soon materialize.

  Once clear of Forte we turn and watch. It does not, like a house of legend, sink into the tarn. There is little spectacle in the death of Forte, although it is interesting. The four high turrets bend slowly inward, like dancers bowing to each other; but unlike real dancers the turrets continue to fall. Dust raises its smoke above walls no stronger than paper. Destruction takes its time. It is methodical. The building shrieks as rusted nails pull from worn boards and as walls collapse inward.

  By the time of complete collapse not a salvageable piece remains. "I’d be the last," Cat murmurs, "to keep a man from chasing a skirt, but there are limits." To me she says, "Julie never made the connection. All that this meant to him was a roll in the hay."

  "And Gabrielle?"

  "There’s art, " Cat says grimly, "and then, there’s bad art. Those who can’t dance well can always dance on their backs." She turns and heads for Thespia.

  IV

  Nightmare lay ahead. No grotesque vision of Hell ever burned more brightly. I write this record on yellow legal pads as I sit in the library. My writing instrument is a black marker; wide, dark lines against the soft glow of the paper. The lines seem thicker than my fingers. My sight fades, and the vivid ink seems insubstantial. The Barrister has died in peace, and I am soon to follow.

  When Cat turned toward Thespia I could feel tension gather as shadows gained substance and wind began to rise. The Harlequins and Pilgrims and Plantagenets who strode stages in other days, now showed no blinded eyes or ravaged skulls. Their murmurs were alive, and they seemed alive as well. As we strode forward I found myself in company with a band of costumed men and women. They were not yet corporeal, but they were no longer creatures of shadow. "I’ve saved, your Grace, a pocket full of wind . . ."

  ". . . warriors or cartoonists." Cat spoke to the forest, or to the company, but not to me. "I expect we’ll have to decide which."

  Thespia seemed to gather night as it loomed into darkness. It was always too massive for a house, too massive, even, for a theater. In many ways it resembled a castle, but one of wood more than stone. True, the widely sweeping steps were of marble, and the foundation was of granite, but all else was wood. I did not then know that marble and granite can burn.

  Gaiety accompanied our approach, ready to whistle, or break into song. Cat hummed, and seemed ready to whistle, or break into song. She moved with such grace that I did not at first realize what else was happening.

  From the other mansions black shadows emerged. They staggered, fumbled, and gradually gained strength. As they grew stronger, black turned to gray, and gray to luminosity. We walked in light as freed spirits congregated.

  Thespia loomed so huge I could only feel intimidation. As wind began to bend trees, light from the fourth floor of Thespia brightened. The first three floors then illumed with glow like electric storms against clouds. As light grew, wind became stronger above the forest. It blew through my clothing and chilled my spine.

  When we entered Cat paused. "Welcome back, " Cat murmured, probably to herself. After all, she had once walked the stage that opened before us. Cat looked around the immense auditorium that contained not one shred of color.

  "No wonder it attacked the Barrister." Cat finally spoke directly to me. "It’s so hard up that life is even being drawn from the place where it lives."

  "It?"

  "Julie was always an ‘it,’" Cat says. She reconsiders. "Maybe not always, but that’s what he became." She sees that I do not understand. "My dear man. Wake up. You once fashioned cloth into beautiful things."

  All around us spirits hovered silent but poised. Those crippled spirits that had joined us from the buildings remained shadowy, but Cat’s company of materialized spirits gained even greater substance.

  "Black-and-white must buy color, or steal. Thus, d
o I give you Julie." Cat turned to ascend broad stairs.

  Wind thumped against Thespia. The building did not shake, but from upstairs rooms came moans as wind poured through broken windows. Wails rose as wind probed cracks between boards and window frames.

  Second floor displayed dressing rooms, and a shock. In closets were products of my own hands. Costumes hung in tidy and colorful rows; costumes to bring forth aviators and princesses, churls, beggars, merry wives, or Spanish dancers.

  "Their colors have survived," I whispered to Cat.

  "I think," she said, "that they have been preserved. I think I’m beginning to understand this."

  The second floor was also used as storage: coils of cables, dry and decaying manilla rope, tools and other appurtenances of stagecraft. Below us, down in the theater, echoes sounded. They were not whispers. The echoes spoke in large outstanding terms, proclaiming the awakening of dreams. Cat listened. Smiled.

  As we climbed, color became more than a suggestion. It had not completely drained from walls where fading white had turned to yellow, and where ormolu held traces of pastels. Third floor was given over to private chambers, and it was on third floor that one knew that first taste of absolute fear. The fear is not so terrible one cannot bear it, but it lives like copper on the tongue.

  Some of the doors to private chambers stood open. And, what lay in them might have once lived. Wind swept the rooms and rustled faded gowns.

  And less fearful, though like echoes, walls carried notatations and graffiti; a record of what had once been positive about Thespia. "H.R.H in Hamlet, spring 1897." "Ferrill, 1918, the Armistice just announced. We’re playing a George Ade." "E. Barrymore, Ah, Cassandra, 1932." The notations were normally faded, yet still seemed alive.

  "Think on’t, milord," Cat muttered, "Think ye longish and well." Around her, materialized spirits became more physical. Murmurs turned to soft speech; not confused, but questioning.