Late at Night

by William Schoell

“I—” She hesitated, came to a dead stop. Ernie stood beside her, still and patient, waiting for her to explain. It came rushing out of her all at once. “Look, I’ve become very defensive about these things. People think I’m showing off or begging for attention, or that I’m whacked out or something. But I can’t help it. It’s me. It’s the way I am. I can’t do anything about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I—I get feelings. I pick up things. I’m psychic. Surely somebody must have told you.”

  He nodded. In spite of his attitude towards such matters, he found himself wanting her to go on, to explain herself.

  “It first started—these particular feelings I’ve been getting—the moment I set foot on the island, maybe earlier. They keep coming and going. I’ve tried to ignore them but it hasn’t been possible.”

  Ernie reminded himself to be understanding, open-minded. “But this island’s history. All that bloodshed. It would be enough to give anyone premonitions of disaster, bad feelings. Without taking anything away from your psychic abilities, don’t you think that’s the likeliest explanation?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it’s more than that. I’m not especially given to”— she said the words distastefully—” ‘intuitions’ or ‘premonitions.’ I only know what I hear and see in my mind.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “No! This is going to keep up all the time I’m here. There’s nothing I can do about it. Like you said, this island’s history—it was inevitable that I’d pick up the vibrations of some of what has gone on before.” They had started walking again. “I’ve learned not to let my abilities bother me; whenever I can, that is. I can deal with the things I feel. I can’t deal with the possibility—”

  “Yes, go on. The possibility?”

  “The possibility that all the psychic energy on this island, the accumulation of the force of all that violence and pain, can still be collecting somewhere, capable of doing harm, affecting those who are most sensitive, most vulnerable …”

  “Come on now. I can buy everything else you said, and I want to respect your opinion. But what you’re suggesting now is the stuff of horror stories.”

  “Maybe. That doesn’t make it impossible.”

  “Who would be ‘most vulnerable’?” he asked. “Someone psychic like you?”

  “Yes,” she said frankly. “As well as people whose powers are less developed, who may not even be aware that they have such powers. I think that poor girl—what was her name?”

  “You don’t mean Emily, do you?”

  “Yes, the one who had that fit. She might have been the very first victim. If you know the history of this island as well as you say you do, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “You’ve got me.”

  “Come on,” she chided. “In 1872 a servant girl by the name of Mary Lou Winters, despondent because of her unrequited love for her employer’s son—Jeremy Burrows—tried to kill herself in that very same bathroom where Emily had her vision.”

  Ernie’s memory was awakened. There had been something about that. “Yes, I think—”

  Andrea rushed onward: “The whole incident was described in John Saisly’s book on Maine legends and stories. The girl tried to slash her wrists with a broken piece of glass, or maybe a piece of shattered mirror, but wasn’t able to go through with it. Oh, she drew blood, a great deal of blood, but she lost courage in the middle of it all. Out of anger and frustration, half-hysterical, she started slashing herself everywhere with the glass, while the blood ran down her arms from the cuts on her wrists. Her stomach, her breasts. She kept ripping at her body, then ran around the house screaming for help.”

  “My God. That does sound familiar, doesn’t it?”

  “I think that Emily was somehow affected by that event, something that happened over a hundred years ago. I know it sounds absurd—but look at what happened! She kept yelling about blood—only there wasn’t any. She saw a figure in the mirror, in that very same bathroom, and ran around as if she was possessed, exactly the way that poor girl did back in 1872. Coincidence? She saw something, Mr. Thesinger, something that no one else could see.”

  “Why didn’t you mention all this at dinner? I knew about that servant girl’s suicide attempt, but not so many details.”

  “Would you have mentioned it if you were me? And have the others frightened, and resenting me because of it? Or have Anton start passing his remarks? Psychics are hated, feared, disbelieved. It’s been the story of my life. I’ve learned to shut up about it unless somebody asks. I just thought you might like to know.”

  “I do. I’m glad you told me. Very glad. Glad that you thought you could confide in me. I mean that.”

  She smiled. “I know you do. And I appreciate it.”

  “There’s just one thing that puzzles me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Surely the accounts of the attempted suicide weren’t as detailed as all that. How do you know so much?”

  She looked worried for a moment, confused. “I —I don’t know.” She looked at him helplessly. “I just know that it’s the truth. That’s the way it happened. I could almost see it happening. I wish I could be more specific, but that’s all that I can say.”

  “Well, we have one thing to be grateful for. That servant girl in 1872 completely recovered. If Emily is going to enact her life story, at least we know how it will turn out.”

  “That depends on who’s writing the script,” Andrea said. “Remember—several years later Mary Lou Winters was one of the people butchered by Edmund Burrows.”

  Ernie was about to ask her how she could be sure of that—even the official records were hazy —when he saw a startled look come into her eyes. She was lifting her hand, pointing. Suddenly he realized with some surprise that it was foggy; they were surrounded by fog. It had sprung up around them unnoticed while they were talking and strolling. The sound of the water breaking onto the rocks, rolling up the beach, was strangely ominous.

  “It’s there,” she said, still pointing. He followed her hand, trying to see through the fog all around them. And then he saw it—the prow of the boat jutting up out of the rocks about fifteen yards away. He saw a jagged gash in the wooden side of the ship, thought he could almost see movement inside the hole. Water, he supposed, moonlight glinting off the surface creating ripples and shadows that confounded his imagination. He shivered involuntarily.

  “Shall we take a look?” he said, trying to strike a note of bravery in his voice.

  “No,” she said sharply. “I—I don’t want to go any further. I want to go back. I think we should go back.”

  “We’ve walked this far, we might as well—”

  “Please, Mr. Thesinger.”

  “Ernie, I told you.”

  “Ernie—let’s go back.”

  Silly woman, he thought, before he could stop himself, glad he had not said it out loud, glad she was not a mindreader. Or was she? One never knew. They’d come out all this way just to see the ship. There it was. The moon was out, they had a flashlight, they could see a bit of it at least. Still, there was this fog covering everything. Maybe they might as well return to the house. He hoped she wasn’t going to make a habit of “going freaky” on him; that he could do without quite nicely. He made one last stab. As long as they were out here …

  “Do you want to stay here while I go take a better look? I won’t be gone long.”

  “No!” she said. “I don’t think you should go over there, either. Don’t ask me why. I can’t tell you. Tomorrow. When it’s daylight.”

  “Well—”

  She was practically shouting. “I can’t stay here by myself and I won’t go back to the house without you. Please. We’ll look at it tomorrow, when it’s safe … when we can get our bearings. This fog.” She shrugged and gave him a plaintive look.

  She was really quite petrified, he could tell that now. And part of her fear was being transferred to him. H
e realized that the thought of going on alone to see the ship did not appeal to him in the slightest; in fact, it frightened him. “All right. All right,” he said comfortingly. “We’ll go back right now. Actually, this place is starting to get to me, too.”

  He wanted to put his arm around her protectively, and wondered if that’s what she wanted him to do. She looked cold, her sweater frail and flimsy. She might think he was getting fresh, though, so he kept his hands to himself. The fog was getting very thick now, and the air was much colder than before. They walked at a brisk pace, no conversation. Andrea looked ahead unswervingly. She never looked at her sides, at the woods or ocean, or even at her feet.

  For his own part, Ernie didn’t begin to relax until he looked over his shoulder for the twenty-fifth time and could no longer see even the outline of the shipwrecked Mary Eliza.

  Andrea didn’t relax until they could clearly see the lights from the guest house shining like a beacon across the beach.

  Chapter 14

  While Ernie and Andrea were walking back to the guesthouse, Joanne Nobele was trying her best to get to sleep. She had been awfully tired about an hour before, but she hated to go to sleep without brushing her teeth and fixing her hair, and Mrs. Plushing had been in the bathroom for what seemed like hours. Joanne had struggled to stay awake until it was her turn, and now that she was through putting in the curlers and rubbing the face cream into her flawless nineteen-year-old skin, she was distressed to find herself wide awake again.

  In the bunk below her Emily was fast asleep, still tranquilized. She had woken up around nine to ask for a glass of water, too tired for anything else. After gulping down the liquid she’d gone right back to sleep again, cuddled in the nice, warm lower bunk that Joanne had wanted and still coveted for herself. It wasn’t normal sleeping up here near the ceiling, she thought from the upper bunk, but Emily had been put down below for convenience’s sake. Meanwhile, oblivious to it all, Mrs. Plushing snored contentedly in the comfortable bed across the room.

  Joanne turned over on her back and tried to think of different boys, those she knew and actors she had only dreamt of. She smiled, hoping that as usual she’d eventually fall asleep while in the middle of a nice erotic reverie. Not too erotic—she was much too inexperienced for that.

  What was that?

  It sounded as if someone was crying, no—weeping would be the word. It had a muffled sound to it, as if it came from outside their room. Impossible. One thing she knew about both Eric and Hans was that neither was the crying type.

  Then who could it be?

  It wasn’t she, that was for certain. And she could still hear the raspy, breathing noises made by Mrs. Plushing; the woman was definitely still sleeping. Emily? The crying really wasn’t coming from the bunk below. Besides, Emily was dead to the world.

  Just to make sure, Joanne leaned out over the edge of the bunk and pushed herself out as far as she could go without falling. She looked at Emily —there was enough moonlight streaming in through the window for her to see—but if the girl in the lower bunk had been the one weeping her body would surely have been shaking. All Joanne saw was the gentle rise and fall of her breast under the blanket; she heard those even breathing sounds, nothing more. Emily, too, was fast asleep.

  So if no one in the room was crying, then who could it be?

  Joanne searched desperately for a rational answer, something reasonable and comforting. Perhaps one of the other women, one of the guests. These old houses had funny pipes and drafts and things; the noise could be traveling down from a second- or third-story bedroom. Yes, that had to be the answer.

  Only Joanne could have sworn that the crying was coming from somewhere in the very room she was in. She listened carefully, intently, trying to exactly determine the noise’s point of origin. She thought about getting out of bed, but thought better of it. She might wake Emily or Mrs. Plushing. Or worse.

  She shuddered.

  Perhaps the woman who was crying wasn’t really “in” the house at all. Perhaps she wasn’t even flesh and blood. Perhaps Joanne was hearing the anguished gasps and cries of a ghost.

  And then she was sure of it.

  The crying was coming from right inside this room, there could be no mistake.

  Shivering uncontrollably, tears of fright streaming down her cheeks, Joanne stiffened underneath her blanket, and tried to scream. Nothing came out but a soft, pathetic whimper. She cried inside her mind: Emily. Mrs. P. Help! Help me! Bursting spots of black and white danced before her eyes. If there had been any mercy in the world she would have passed out then from fear. Anything would have been better than facing the unknown all by herself.

  One thought ran over and over through her mind:

  So far she’d only heard the ghost.

  What would she do if she finally saw it?

  Chapter 15

  Andrea said good night quickly to Ernie, then darted up the stairs to the second floor and went into her room. She had almost forgotten about Cynthia, who was—surprise—already in bed and fast asleep. She made her way carefully across the room and turned on the bathroom light, then sat down on the edge of her twin bed and started to undress. It had subsided, at least, the uncanny fear that had risen up in her all at once out there on the beach. It had been such a powerful, overwhelming rush of panic, of abject terror. She knew this island would get to her if she let it. She just hadn’t been prepared for how hard it would fight.

  She was convinced that if she and Ernie had stayed out there, had gone any closer to that boat, they would not have been seen alive again.

  At first, she had felt the usual odd vibrations, the ill-ease she had expected and borne with ever since arrival. But then, as they neared the ship, it had gotten worse and worse. “All that energy, all that violence,” she had said, or something like it, but she had never really thought about what those words truly meant, the exact scope of what she was dealing with. The psychic vibrations were more tremendous than anything she had ever encountered before. But, she reminded herself, just because bad thoughts and negative energy were floating around, it didn’t mean that any harm could actually befall someone because of it. The problem was she couldn’t be sure of that.

  The things she had seen, had felt, inside her mind. The depths of loneliness, bottomless agony, fathomless pain, the anguish of drowning men and women. She had absorbed their torment unwillingly, and wave after wave of psychic despair had rolled over her just as the ocean waves had covered the bodies of the sea dead, had sent them to their watery graves, to rot and decay and sink into the mud without a trace. All that she had felt, all that she had experienced. Would it be any different during the day? She had her doubts. Nighttime intensified the experience, partly because her own imagination worked overtime when it was dark out, but imagination alone could not account for all the sensations she had experienced while approaching that ship. It had been horrible, a living nightmare. If only she had been able to make Ernie understand—but she had seen it in his eyes. He was like all the others, all the other non-believers. He would only laugh, say one thing with his mouth, but mean another. Underneath, he would snicker, condescend. They always did.

  And it was really too bad, she thought, feeling at last reasonably safe and sound up here in her room. Too bad, because Ernest Thesinger was an all-around nice guy, one of those rare birds who was gracious and thoughtful and pleasant and willing to listen.

  Attractive, masculine, without being overbearingly macho, which he could easily have been, all six-foot-two of him, with those broad shoulders, that bushy mustache. He projected a quietly handsome image. His eyes were small and burned with intelligence. His mouth was sensitive, wide, with a full lower Up that gave him a contemplative look. His nose was a bit too fleshy, bulbous, but it fit his face, and its bulk was overshadowed by his mustache, which was full and long and nicely trimmed. His black hair was worn short, curling at the edges and in the back. She could picture him so perfectly in front of her, a man of strength and resonance
, an artist. Thirty, maybe older. His big hands and arms could have held her so nicely. He would have been so warm …

  Well, you did it again, she thought. You really turned him off, didn’t you? He must have thought you had a screw loose. I wonder if Lynn ever has these problems. I know that Cynthia doesn’t. And why should she? Andrea thought with a bitterness that surprised her. A woman whose assets were as obvious as Cynthia’s could be flighty, fruity, psychic, and silly, but men would overlook anything in her case.

  She lay down on the bed and nestled her head in the pillow. It was so soft, refreshingly cool against her face, a nice contrast to the warmth of the blanket. I won’t change for anyone, she said to herself determinedly. Not Ernest Thesinger, not Bob, not Steven, none of them. My “beaus. ” She giggled. None of them could take it, could they? Well, she thought, I am what I am and I can’t change it, and wouldn’t even if I could. But, Mr. Thesinger, if you think I’m through with you, you are very sadly mistaken.

  As she did every night of her life since that fourteenth birthday when she had heard the first odd murmurings in her head and learned in the morning about her grandmother dying, she suppressed the thoughts and words and pictures bouncing around in her brain, a jumbled miasma of other people’s deeds and consciences, and let the weariness overtake her. She was not religious, but she could not resist saying one more silent prayer:

  Lord, don’t let me die on this island.

  Chapter 16

  Ernie couldn’t sleep.

  Normally he would write in the evening—he did his best work then—typing until as late as six in the morning before tumbling into bed satisfied. It would take him several days to change his sleep patterns—although he had to admit he felt pretty tired, what with getting up early to begin with so he’d make the boat on time; then the trip over, and that eerie walk with Andrea. He should have been able to fall asleep the minute his head hit the pillow but, while his body was exhausted, his mind kept working, working.