Late at Night

by William Schoell

  It was a sunny day and the island was truly beautiful. The path to the main house was now overgrown, home to thistles, orchids, and sundew —as well as millions upon millions of crawling, flying, and creeping bugs. Cynthia felt something light upon her neck and swatted it with her palm.

  “Yechh, got it,” she said, looking at the black mess smeared across her hand. Jerry smiled in commiseration. “Wish I had some Raid,” he said. “Funny no one thought to bring some bug spray.”

  “Who expected so many bugs this time of year?” Cynthia whined. “It’s not even summer time yet. Officially, that is.”

  Anton laughed. “My dear, I’ve even seen flies in winter.” Cynthia smirked—I bet— and continued slapping her bare arms and waist, while Anton turned back to his companion Betty. Everyone was pairing off, Cynthia noticed. Andrea and Ernie were far ahead of the others, steering everyone in the right direction, or so they hoped, by making sure no one strayed off what was left of the passage—as if they knew which way to go more than the others did. They were deep in conversation even as they acted as trail guides. Something was brewing between those two, and Cynthia admitted to herself that she was jealous.

  Lynn and John were talking together, too. Probably patching up whatever rips they’d made while quarreling. John was as stoical as usual, taking all the bugs and the weeds and sun in stride. Lynn seemed a tiny bit excited—this was her island after all, and she had never seen the old Burrows mansion—but was still more subdued than usual. The bugs didn’t seem to bother her.

  The humidity was rising the more they went inland, however that was possible. Cynthia supposed it was just getting more humid the later it got, but to her it felt as if they were slowly walking into the core of a sun.

  Anton and Betty were like two peas in a pod. Two homely peas. I’m glad they found each other, Cynthia thought cynically. She sensed that Anton’s tastes didn’t really run in his chubby date’s direction. He would like women he could carry on his arms like medals, busty, cosmetically perfect beauties he could show off as if they were the spoils of war. Betty, so desperate for human contact she’d think of Anton as a prize—well, he was a celebrity—was building herself up to a big letdown. Once they were off this island Anton wouldn’t see her for dust.

  Why was Jerry so determined to avoid her today? Cynthia wondered. It was putting her in a bad mood, as if everything else wasn’t bad enough. Had Gloria started pulling a little on the purse strings, telling Jerry to watch his flank or get cut off without a penny? That was it probably. Gloria might have been a harmless old ninny to everyone else, but Cynthia found herself hating her more and more.

  Christ, she said, slapping yet another bug on her arm—too late, she saw her own blood mixed in with the dark mush that was the insect—even those two silly housegirls behind me clinging to one another out of fright are having a better time than I am. Eric was a little too oily for her tastes, and Hans too old, but either of them would have been better traveling companions than Jerry. Beautiful but dull, that’s what he was. Why did they have to stay behind to fix the plumbing? Cynthia was beginning to think the others back in the guest house had had the right idea. She should have stayed to help Mrs. Plushing prepare the dinner, or sat out in the sun with a book and a gin and tonic like Gloria was doing. Instead she was in the middle of the jungle (Oh, “Glo, ” how right you had been!) on her way to look at some dilapidated ruin of a house that no one had been in, or had wanted to be in, for years.

  Cynthia pretended to trip on a piece of exposed root. There were a lot of them, as if the ground were tainted and the trees wanted out. She conveniently fell against Jerry, right into his arms. She looked up into his startled face. “Good catch, handsome. This road is dangerous.” He helped her to her feet while she feigned a sprained ankle. “Oh. It’ll be okay. Really. I’m all right. I’ll just lean on Jerry. You don’t mind, do you? Let’s go on, everyone. Really, it’s all right.”

  They were nearly at the house now; they could see it through the trees. And then they were out in the edge of an enormous clearing, looking up at what had to be the granddaddy of “haunted” mansions. They stared up in shock and wonderment, all ten of them, aghast at the sight that was meeting their eyes.

  Her mouth wide open, Cynthia pulled away from Jerry and took a step backwards. There was nothing wrong with her leg now. She spoke for all of them as she gestured in the air with her hands and said:

  “Jesus Christ! Let’s get out of here!”

  Chapter 24

  How could a house have a face?

  That’s what Ernie was wondering. How could a house have a countenance complete with eyes and nose and wide grinning mouth that seemed to turn up in delight at every sick and secret thought of humankind. How could a house have a face?

  For that’s what this one had. This decaying, crumbling house from the 19th century had a visage as evil and real as anything he had ever seen. Oh, there were no actual eyes, no lips, no teeth, no honest-to-goodness nostrils. But the features were there nonetheless. Strikingly evident. A freak of nature, of course. An accident. It was just the way the two large windows up front in the center had sort of caved in, the vines straggling across and over them like eyebrows on a sinister giant forehead. The moisture, the humidity, one could imagine the rate at which plants could grow in this kind of weather. There was a sort of jutting balcony which looked like nothing so much as a proboscis, and the rain water had discolored the front of the edifice to such a strange degree, in such a bizarre pattern, that it really looked as if the house had a terrible smiling maw. There were rotting teeth inside that mouth too, stumps, and the blast of air that came rushing at them from the house, then rushing away from them a few seconds later, then back, was like the hot, fetid breath of a slumbering monster.

  That’s how a house could have a face.

  It was much, much larger than the guest house, ten times the size. It had four floors, two wings, an attic. At one and the same time it seemed to beckon them and to say “Go away!” Like many houses built in the late 1800s, it was a strange mixture of different architectural styles, a visible metaphor for Edmund Burrows’s twisted mentality. The planes were all straight and flat, the dimensions broad—it sat on its piece of ground like an enormous squatting toad—but to it there had been affixed angular bumps and protuberances, bay windows, cracking cantilevers, cornices that seemed without point or purpose.

  Ernie heard Cynthia’s frightened plea behind him. “Let’s get out of here!” And for just a moment he had felt the same way. But now his fear had been supplanted by a calm and steady fascination. It’s just a house, after all. Nothing here to be afraid of. We just have to watch out for unsteady walls, rotted staircases, unsound floors. That’s all.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” Cynthia was saying. “Didn’t any of you feel it? For a moment I was—petrified. That house looked as if it were alive!”

  The others all understood what she was talking about, and told her so. During the next few moments—everyone talking at once, nobody making sense—Ernie remembered Andrea and turned to see where she had gone. He had been telling her about the book, the scream. He had not remembered much more about it, but had tried to make her understand. She was receptive, but cool, not venturing an opinion. She had not seemed very concerned. Perhaps because she had so much else on her mind.

  And now she was yards ahead of the others, making her way towards the house, disregarding whatever danger there might be. “Andrea,” he called. The others turned to him, followed along his sightline. There was some expression of dismay. “Don’t go alone.” Everson also called for Andrea to wait for the others, but she didn’t respond to either man. Ernie remembered her behavior near the boat the previous night, and felt some relief. If there was anything bad about this place Andrea would surely not go near it. He said to the others, “Come on. It must be safe. At least let’s look around the outside.”

  Hesitantly, they started forward. All but the housekeepers. After their ordeals
of the night before they apparently had had enough spooky stuff to last them a lifetime. The trip out in the daylight had been fun. Exploring a haunted house was quite another. They huddled together and stayed near the edge of the clearing, resisting the impulse to bolt back into the woods by themselves.

  Ernie walked towards Andrea, wishing she would turn around so he could see her facial expression, shout out, do something to let him know she was all right and not in the throes of some nightmare. Funny, how he was beginning to take her powers for granted. All it took was one unexplainable situation—like finding that book, if he found that book—to turn one into a convert, or at least to give one a more open mind about such things. And Andrea hadn’t even proselytized.

  The heat got more intense the closer he walked to the house. Where was that hot current coming from? The way it flowed over him, then seemed to retreat, was uncanny. It really was like the house was inhaling and exhaling. And the odor. Just terrible. Like sewage. He was a few steps away from Andrea now. He turned back to see how the others were progressing. Everyone seemed quite enthralled and terrified.

  “Andrea?” he called out. “Are you all right?’.’

  She looked over towards him, as if snapping out of a trance, just as he caught up with her. ”Wha—?” She blinked her eyes, shrugging away the confusion.

  “Are you all right? You wouldn’t answer me. Any of us. I was afraid—”

  “I’m fine,” she said abruptly. “It was just—” She stopped just as abruptly. Ernie sensed that she was about to say something about feeling vibrations, picking up psychic feelings, something she was afraid he’d express disapproval of. How could he make her understand that he was willing to listen now, always had been. But especially now after the strange occurrences of the evening before.

  The others had caught up to them as he and Andrea stood before the impressive front entrance to the house. Up close you couldn’t see the “face” quite as clearly. It was still a ghastly structure, emitting a foul odor, an uncanny degree of warmth, and, if one listened carefully, strange, subdued noises coming out from the interior. “Well,” Everson said, looking up at the windows. “Anyone want to go inside? But remember—be careful. I don’t want anyone having any accidents.”

  “Do you want to?” Ernie asked Andrea. She only nodded meekly, but nonetheless seemed anxious to explore. Cynthia, once again clinging to Jerry, was a little hesitant, but when Jerry moved with the others she went along without complaint. Lynn held on to Everson’s arm, looking wary, apprehensive, a trifle excited. Betty and Anton were an almost comical study in contrasts. Betty’s eyes were wide open, ablaze with awe and the pull of mystery. Anton’s countenance was screwed up in annoyance as if he’d discovered he’d stepped in horse manure.

  “There’s the burned section,” Everson said, pointing towards the right, where one wing of the house was a blackened, sooty ruin. The outer brick walls were still standing, but there were large gaps in the facade that permitted one to see inside and witness the fire’s devastation. Here and there one could make out a recognizable piece of furniture, a top of a cabinet here, a hardbacked chair there, but mostly the east wing was just a charred wreck of rotted timbers, shattered stonework, and soggy piles of ashes. All four floors in the wing had fallen down atop each other. The group could hear the sounds of winged creatures, high out of sight in the uppermost reaches of the building, flying about as if in greeting.

  “Well, let’s go inside,” Lynn said. “I wonder what kind of condition the main section and the west wing are in. Aunt Gladys always planned to restore the place one day—so did the previous owner—but neither of them ever got around to it. I bet there’s a lot of antiques inside. Nothing was ever removed, to my knowledge.”

  They walked up the steps en masse. Everson had an old key to the mansion, but didn’t have to use it. The lock was rusted over and unmanageable in any case. The lawyer found that one good shove with his shoulders would get the door unstuck. It swung open, and there came a fresh, warm draft of fetid, stuffy air. “Something’s dead in there,” Anton said. “And it’s been dead a long time.”

  The entrance opened into a long hall that ran the length of the building. It wasn’t as dark as they had expected; light came in through the windows as well as the doorway. To the right there was a lounge, or greeting room; to the left, a large library. Lynn walked briskly down the hall, her feet making whispers on the carpeted floor, and called, “Here—I think it’s a sewing room.” There came swishing sounds as white sheets were removed and the valuables uncovered. “Oh John. These things are just beautiful. I know there isn’t much room in the guest house, but how could my aunt have just left them here? Look at these, darling. Come see.”

  And thus the party was quickly split into pairs. John and Lynn rhapsodized over the old sewing equipment, spinning wheels, and such, wondering how much they might bring if they were cleaned, restored, and polished. Andrea stood in the middle of the library, revolving slowly, absorbing the essence of the place, while Ernie looked through the mildewed, molding books, his eyes subconsciously searching for one mysterious, modern novel. Betty and Anton continued down the hall, discovering a very large first floor ballroom; the others could hear them laughing and playing, dancing around on the parquet floor as if it were the days of old and they were dressed in 19th century finery. Jerry and Cynthia announced that they were going upstairs to look at the other floors.

  Ernie turned away from the bookshelves, his fingers thick with dirt and greenish slime. Most of the books had simply fallen apart in his hand; a treasure trove lost to him forever. Why had none of the previous owners taken more care with them? It was as if they had wanted nothing to do with the house, letting it just sit there to rot for all eternity. At the far end of the library there was a doorway that had once led into the east wing. Ernie could see the rubble beyond it. At least the wall separating wing from main section was still standing, protecting the house from further debilitation.

  He saw Andrea in the center of the room, turning, turning, her eyes closed and her lips smiling. “Are you all right?” he said, taking her by the shoulders. He found her movements a little unsettling.

  She stopped, looked up at him, and smiled as if at a long lost friend.

  “Why Horatio,” she said, “You’ve come back.”

  Chapter 25

  Jerry and Cynthia were enjoying the upstairs. Cynthia’s feelings of anxiety had gone away. Now she felt like a kid again, exploring secret chambers filled with treasure, entering uncharted lands where her parents forbade her to go. Only there was no treasure here. Just a lot of old furniture covered with an awful lot of dust. Jerry seemed fascinated by it. Too fascinated. She would have to do something about that.

  “Just look at this place,” Jerry said. “Have you ever seen anything like it? It’s like stepping into the past. Look at these old bedrooms. The canopies, the headboards. They don’t make stuff like this anymore.”

  Standing in the first bedroom on the second floor was giving Cynthia ideas. “Jerry,” she purred. “Let’s see what the top floor is like.”

  “All right.” He sat down on the bed to test its softness. “Too lumpy,” he muttered. “Glo would really hate it.”

  “Now,” she demanded. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Jerry looked up at her. Cyn could tell he was beginning to get the message. A certain light went on in his eyes, and his smile had become a leer. Probably wasn’t even conscious of it.

  “You’ve been here before?” he asked.

  She frowned. “What do you think, huh?” She bent down, giggled, tapped the tip of his nose with her finger.

  “Then what are you going to show me?”

  “You’ll find out. Why don’t we go upstairs, where the others won’t find us for a while? Then I’ll show you what I want you to see.”

  He didn’t need any more encouragement than that. Cynthia knew men all right. The old cow might give him the money, and he might give her some action—
but when he really wanted to get his rocks off he had to turn to other women. Younger women. Women like Cynthia.

  They began ascending the wide sweeping staircase with its broad steps and wooden banister. Cynthia took note of the squishing sound their feet made, as if the carpet was wet. “It stinks in here,” Jerry said.

  “I noticed.” But she wasn’t about to let that deter her. This boy was going to get it but good.

  Third floor. More bedrooms. Was the odor slacking off, or were they only getting used to it? The windows along the staircase let in lots of light, but the place still had an eerie, somber quality to it.- Cynthia wanted to get this over with. The voices of the others down below were becoming less distinct the further up they went.

  Fourth floor. More bedrooms, at least off the staircase. Who could tell what there might be at the end of the hall. On the upper floors the corridors ran side to side instead of front to back like on the first floor. The floor up here was uncarpeted; their footsteps on the hard wood surface made tapping sounds that echoed throughout the house. ”Shhh,” Cynthia said, a finger to her lips. “Walk softly.”

  They went from dusty room to dusty room, but couldn’t find any that had furniture in it. “No rugs, no furniture. What did they do up here?” Cynthia asked in puzzlement. They should have stayed below where there had been nice, comfortable beds.

  Jerry shrugged. “They probably decided to close off this floor. They probably only needed about a quarter of the rooms anyway. This is an awfully big place.”