by Rick Hautala
Elizabeth cast Graydon a quick, angry glance. She was thinking how Dr. Gavreau had never been so confrontational.
“I ... I don’t think there were any ... any really major problems between me and Caroline.” she said.
“I’m not saying there were,” Graydon replied. “I want you to search your own feelings, your own memories of Caroline, uncolored by the tragedy that occurred. Look back at how you honestly felt, say, when she was born.”
“I was happy ... I was ecstatic,” Elizabeth said, even as the slight quaver in her voice betrayed her memory of the deep postpartum depression she had experienced and the “complications” that had eliminated her chances of ever having more children. She had always told herself that, just knowing Caroline would be her only child — ever! — only made her all the more precious.
“And what about your husband — Doug,” Graydon said. “How did he handle this new addition to your family?”
The lie, that Doug — like her — had been as happy and loving as ever, was on the tip of Elizabeth’s tongue, but in the silence before she spoke, all the darker, more hateful memories came rushing back upon her. She knew Graydon would detect the lie if she spoke it.
“I’d have to say that his — my relationship with Doug changed quite a bit right after Caroline was born,” she said, squirming as she considered how far Graydon was willing to push all of this.
“For better or for worse?” Graydon asked.
“Certainly not for the better,” she said, her voice a twisted hush. “Doug did more than dote on Caroline; she became just about everything to him.”
“At the expense of his relationship with you?” Graydon asked.
“Absolutely,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “I think, to be honest, I’d have to say that. But to be fair —”
‘‘There’s nothing fair about a marital relationship,” Graydon said rather harshly. “As much as we would like to think there is, there just isn’t! Ninety-nine times ... no, make that a hundred times out of a hundred, one partner or the other feels taken advantage of or used or abused or whatever!”
Graydon spoke with such vehemence Elizabeth couldn’t help but wonder what personal pain he had suffered to make him so hateful, so negative about marriage. Sure, she could admit — to herself and to him — that she and Doug most definitely drifted further apart after Caroline’s birth, but the split betwecn them had started long before Caroline was born.
“I know, I know.” Elizabeth said, feeling strong barbs of anger and knowing they were directed as much at herself as they were at Graydon. “And you’re going to tell me that we’re dealing with the old Electra complex, right? That I have all this built-up resentment for Caroline because I think she took my husband’s love away from me, right?”
“I’m not saying anything,” Graydon replied. “I merely want to direct the conversation to areas I think will be fruitful for you. “
“But I — well, what I think you’re implying is ... what? That I buried all of my resentment for my daughter because of what happened to her?”
“Do you think there’s any truth to that?” Graydon asked pointedly.
Elizabeth shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean ... sure, I guess I felt like I was in competition for Doug’s love and attention, but I realize the love between a husband and wife is very different from the love between a parent and a child.”
“You can say that quite easily in general, intellectual terms, but how do you feel about it personally — specifically? Why do you feel as though you have to apologize to Caroline?”
A rush of panic swept up inside Elizabeth’s chest. Her hands went suddenly cold and tingly again.
“You want the truth?” she asked.
“Nothing but,” Graydon said, smiling broadly.
“I feel I have to apologize to her because when I really search my feelings about what happened that night and how I reacted, I still wonder if maybe I did stop Doug — on purpose — because I did want Caroline to ... die.”
Rubbing his hands together, Graydon stood up and walked over to the kitchenette. “I respect you for saying that,” he said. “It takes a great deal of courage to say something like that.” He poured himself a fresh cup of tea. When he held out an empty cup toward Elizabeth, she shook her head tightly and said, “No thanks.”
Walking back to his chair, he sighed as he sat back down. When he sipped his hot tea, Elizabeth noticed how delicately he held the cup. Veins and tendons stood out starkly from the back of his pale hand. She wondered whether he would get a tan with warmer weather coming, or if his skin maintained this winter-sallow complexion all year round. There was something almost unnerving about him that she realized for the first time; it was as if he was a person who abhorred the sunlight at all times.
“And do you think — I suppose you must have talked this over in great detail with Dr. Gavreau — that this feeling you have, that you purposely allowed your daughter to die, has anything to do with your attempted suicide?”
Elizabeth sighed deeply and shook her head. “Boy, you don’t waste any time getting to the point, do you?”
Graydon took another sip of tea and smiled. “No, That’s my approach to therapy, at any rate. I realize it may be uncomfortable at times —”
“I’ll say it’s uncomfortable,” Elizabeth muttered.
“But as much as I believe the mind and personality are very delicate machinery, I don’t think it does either you or me any good to pretend we don’t see something so obvious ... what at AI-Anon they call ‘the elephant in the living room.’ “
“Am I that transparent?” Elizabeth asked, feeling suddenly quite vulnerable. She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling. “Is what I’m holding back or hiding from myself so obvious?”
Graydon shook his head. “No — I don’t want you to feel that way, but if we’re to have a productive relationship, we can’t very well ignore such an obvious conclusion. You know, when people begin therapy, they sometimes think they have to dig deeply to uncover some long-hidden, deep dark secrets; but quite often the real problem actually is the one that seems most obvious. We’re not all bundles of hidden, tangled secret drives, you know.”
“And is that what you’re telling me?” Elizabeth said, her voice shaking almost to the breaking point. “That it’s no secret that I wanted Caroline to die?’
“I didn’t say that. I’m simply throwing out topics to discuss,” Graydon replied. “Feelings of competition — especially between a mother and daughter, or between a father and son — are normal; I’d say even natural. If something horrible happens, it would be reasonable to think that the subconscious guilt you feel could lead you to —”
“To try to kill myself?” Elizabeth said.
“Possibly,” Graydon said. He stretched out his arm and looked at his watch. “I hate to say it, but we’re about done for today. How do you feel about what we’ve been discussing?”
Elizabeth took a deep, shuddering breath. “I guess I’ve got plenty to think about until next week.” she replied. as she shifted around on the couch and stood up shakily.
“Until our next session, though, I want you to consider that.” Graydon said, also rising from his chair.
“What?” Elizabeth said, unable to control the trembling of her voice.
Lowering his voice and looking at her with a dark, intense stare that was almost cruel, Graydon said, “If you could speak with Caroline ... what you would say to her.”
“You know,” Elizabeth said, lowering her eyes and laughing nervously as a wave of dizziness swept through her, “just now I thought of another reason. It might be that I just want to have a chance to ... to say good-bye.”
5.
The next morning, unable to get the strange goings on at Oak Grove Cemetery out of his mind, Frank wasn’t so sure it would do any good to talk to Elizabeth about the horror he and Norton had found in front of Caroline’s grave. If Harris and Lovejoy decided to inform her, then let them. It might be best if he stayed out
of it entirely — except unofficially.
Unable to sleep past noon, as he usually did, Frank got up and drove into Portland, figuring he could do some research at the Portland Public Library. He made his way up the steps to the second floor entrance and went directly to the reference desk on the first floor, where a frail, elderly man was standing at the desk, sorting index cards. The name plate on the desk read WILLIAM BAKER.
“I was wondering if you could help me find some books on magic,” Frank said, as he opened his wallet and flashed his police identification.
“Do you mean like magician’s tricks — hocus-pocus?” the librarian asked, waving his thin fingers in the air as if he were about to make a book on the subject magically appear. “Or are you talking supernatural magic, like witchcraft and stuff?” His voice was so cracked with age it made Frank wonder if it was the result of breathing book dust all his life.
“Witchcraft and stuff,” Frank said, closing his I.D. and slipping it into his hip pocket.
“Some general reference material, or are you looking for some particular topic?”
“Well,” Frank said, his mouth twitching into a lopsided grin, “this is kind of a crazy request.”
Rolling his eyes ceilingward, Baker said, “Believe me, after working here as long as I have, I’ve probably seen and heard it all.”
“Well, then,” Frank said, clearing his throat, “how about supernatural — you know, magical — uses of a severed hand, like from a dead person?”
The reference librarian regarded Frank with an odd mixture of amusement and suspicion. His bushy white eyebrows jiggled up and down as he finished jogging the handful of index cards into place. Putting them to one side, he said, “Well, now, either this is a remarkable coincidence; or else you’ve been reading the newspapers about what happened up there in Bristol Mills, huh?”
Frank casually leaned his elbows on the desk edge. “I’m Frank Melrose, a police officer from Bristol Mills,” he said. “I’m involved in the investigation.”
“You don’t say,” Baker said. “What the devil is going on up there, anyway? Do you have any ideas’?”
“Some,” Frank said, offering nothing more.
“Anything we have on something like that would be in our occult section,” Baker said, as he came around the desk and waved for Frank to follow him. He continued to talk to Frank over his shoulder as he walked slowly down a narrow aisle of green metal bookcases. “I think that, next to the Stephen King novels, more books disappear from this section than anywhere else. I dunno — maybe they teleport out of here or something.” He chuckled softly to himself.
“No doubt,” Frank said, keeping his voice to a low whisper.
Baker finally stopped in front of a section of books and, waving his thin hand in a broad are, said, “Well, whatever we’ve got would be here.”
The shelves did look rather sparse, with dozens of books leaning in random disarray. Every shelf was less than half full, and most of the books there looked as dusty and worn as Baker himself. In most cases, the titles printed on the spines had long since faded.
“I think more general information, like what you’re looking for, would be on this shelf,” Baker said. He reached up, grabbed two books at random, and handed them to Frank, who shuffled them back and forth as he read the titles aloud.
“Mysteries of the Unseen World. Magic and the Supernatural. Yup. I guess this looks like the stuff.”
Baker backed away and said, “I’ll be at the reference desk if you have any other questions.” Before turning away, he gave Frank another intense once-over.
“Police work should always be this easy,” Frank said, laughing to reassure Baker that everything was all right. “Thanks for your help.”
Once Baker left, Frank leaned against the bookcase and began riffling through the pages of Magic and the Supernatural. Checking the index for the word hand, he found a section titled “The Hand of Glory, “ and, marking the place with his forefinger, he carried both books over to a nearby chair at a table and, taking out a notepad, settled down to read.
Within half an hour, after two more trips to the shelves for a few more books, Frank learned more than he had ever cared to know about the magical preparation and uses of a dead person’s hand, commonly called the Hand of Glory. He found references to the Hand of Glory in three different books. All three texts said that the hand should preferably be that of a hanged man, that all of the blood must be drained or squeezed out of the hand, and that the hand was to be dried out and treated with a variety of herbs and other things. One text even specified that the hand was to be dried in the sun from July 3 through August 11, the “dog days,” when Sirius, the “Dog Star,” rises and sets with the sun. The whole point of it, Frank discovered, was to mix the fat extracted from the hand with wax to make a candle. This candle, then, when burned, supposedly blinded anyone but the magician who held it, and allowed the magician to rob either the blinded person or his house.
Nowhere in his reading did Frank find any reference to soaking the tips of the fingers and thumb of the Hand of Glory in an oily substance and using them as candles; but, by the time he was through with his research, he didn’t think that was necessary. His conclusion didn’t need to be based on whether or not he thought any of this magical mumbo-jumbo really worked. All he needed to know was that someone who lived either in or near Bristol Mills believed in this stuff — believed in it enough to be trying some of it! And the bottom line was, whatever warped reasoning was behind it, it seemed pretty Goddamned clear that it was directed straight at Elizabeth and her dead daughter!
TEN
Another Warning
1.
The sky was lowering with rain clouds blowing in from the west as Elizabeth walked out of work late Thursday afternoon. She took a breath, deeply inhaling the moist-smelling air, and started across the parking lot, intent on heading home before the rain started. Looking up at the fast-moving clouds, she realized she would be in for a soaking by the time she got halfway home; so she turned toward downtown instead, figuring she’d go to the aunts’ house and visit for a while before calling home for a ride. It had been over a week since she had seen the aunts, and one of the few promises she had made to herself was that she would visit them as often as possible now that she was back home.
“I had a hunch I’d see you today,” Junia said, swinging open the screen door to allow Elizabeth to enter. “Just after lunch, I told Elspeth that we’d be seeing you before the day was over. Come in, come in and have a cup of tea with us.” She leaned out and looked up past the porch roof at the darkening sky. “Looks like you just made it, too.”
“Yeah,” Elizabeth said, as she came into the kitchen and took her accustomed seat at the table.
Junia let the screen door slam shut with a bang, then directed her voice toward the living room doorway and called out, “Elspeth your niece is here to visit. “
When there was no response, Junia walked over to the doorway and glanced around the jamb. Looking back over her shoulder, she smiled and said to Elizabeth, “She’s fallen asleep again. Oh, well — the sleep can’t hurt her.” With that she walked over to the sink, filled the tea kettle, lit the burner, and placed the kettle on to boil.
“I understand you and your fella went out on a date a few nights ago,” Junia said as she sat down opposite Elizabeth. “Did you have fun?”
For an instant, Elizabeth considered telling Junia the truth, that she intended never to see Frank again, but instead she simply shrugged and said, “Sure. We had a lot to catch up on. But that was the same night Mr. Bishop’s house burned.”
“Oh, yes,” Junia said, covering her mouth with her hand. “Wasn’t that horrible’? But I’m glad to hear you and Frank are back to —”
“We’re not,” Elizabeth said, simply but sharply.
Junia instantly read in her response that there was more to it, but she let it drop. While waiting for the kettle to boil, they chatted pleasantly about a variety of subjects. E
lizabeth kept the discussion away from her sessions with Graydon, Henry Bishop’s death, and her relationship — or nonrelationship — with Frank Melrose. Junia talked of neighbors and innocuous local events, such as the patchwork quilt she was working on for the church fair and how grateful she was that spring had arrived and she could work outdoors on her rose bushes.
Outside, the darkness gathered swiftly as the clouds lowered. A strong breeze blew up from the west, and, before the tea kettle had begun to whistle, plump raindrops were splattering against the kitchen window. Junia snapped on the overhead light, and a warm, yellow glow flooded the room. Safe in her aunt’s cozy kitchen, Elizabeth thought that any disturbing thoughts and feelings should be kept at bay, but when the water in the tea kettle began to boil, the shrill whistle jangled her nerves.
Junia got a package of store-bought chocolate-chip cookies from the cupboard and brought them, along with tea cups, a honey jar, and a pitcher of milk, over to the table.
Once she was settled back into her chair and had taken a nibble of a cookie, Junia smiled and said softly, “So now tell me, dear, have you thought any more about what we talked about last time you were here?”
Momentarily confused, Elizabeth looked dumbly at her aunt. Junia smiled and added, “You know, about letting my friend try to help you.”
In a rush, Elizabeth remembered Junia’s mention of a friend of hers who might be able to contact Caroline. She almost said I have all the help I need already, but took a bite of her cookie instead and chewed; her gaze drifted to the rain-splattered window as she struggled to phrase a reply. When she took in a sharp breath, she inhaled a cookie crumb and ended up having a brief coughing fit. The tea was too hot to sip, so she got herself a glass of water at the sink while Junia looked on. After gulping down several mouthfuls of water, Elizabeth sat back down at the table, still wondering what in the world she was going to say to her aunt.
“I — really hadn’t thought much about it, I guess,” she managed, even though her voice sounded fragile to her own ears. “I’ve been pretty much occupied with ... other things.”
