Bellwether

by Jenny Ashford

  The man sighed. “Ivan,” he answered, clearly exasperated.

  “I’m Lily.” She held out a tiny hand, the left one, since it wasn’t as malformed as the other.

  Ivan looked at it, then back up at her face. Finally, he took her hand and shook it twice, rather brusquely. “It’s nice to meet you, Lily, but I really have to go now.”

  She could tell he was starting to get angry, and she thought it would be best not to press her luck; she didn’t want him to have a lasting negative impression of her. This one was a hard case, but she was patient, and she would get to him in the end. She would, in fact, make it her personal mission. She smiled brightly at him and backed up a few steps, demurely, allowing him to close the driver’s side door. His window was all the way up, and he didn’t roll it down to speak to her, not even a crack. He just waved at her through the glass and backed out of the parking space, his face soon partly obscured by the glare from the late afternoon sun.

  Lily watched him go, shading her eyes. She wondered if Father or some of the others were watching her from the church windows. The thought both terrified and exhilarated her. She would show them. This man was going to be hers.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a Tuesday night, and everyone in the house was home for the evening, which hardly ever happened. Tuesdays were also the only nights that Crandall’s was closed to paying customers, so the four of them had the house to themselves.

  Chloe brought takeout Chinese food for dinner, and then Martin and Olivia baked cookies and brewed coffee for everyone. They all gathered in the comfortable sitting room, lounging on the couches, surrounded by the accoutrements of magic that decorated the space — garishly illustrated posters, six-foot boxes with ladies painted on the front and steel blades protruding at several angles, worn top hats on wooden wall pegs, intertwined silver rings. It seemed very still and quiet, the usual music and crowd noise only a distant psychic echo. They all sipped their coffee and munched their cookies as darkness deepened outside.

  Martin did the same, but all the time he was wondering if the others could feel the tension underlying the idyllic scene. Ivan had seemed oddly nervous since he got home from work, and even the usually garrulous Olivia had barely said a word; she’d been moody for days, mostly because of something going on at work, or so she’d said. Martin looked down; Chloe was lying across his lap, her red hair fanned out against his thighs. Her milky white forehead seemed creased with faint lines of worry—just ghosts, really, shadows of lines, but Martin could see them.

  He still hadn’t asked her if she’d had the dream, and he hadn’t mentioned that he was still having it, almost every night now. He hated to admit it to himself, but he was frankly afraid of what she would say—either she would be angry at him for keeping things from her, or she’d tell him she’d been having the dreams, too, and then it would be just like it was with Ivan—an undeniable problem. Something had to be done; he knew someone had to ask the girls and see what they knew. He didn’t want to spoil this, their only night off for a while, but when would he get a better chance? Before he was even aware that he’d decided anything for sure, he heard himself say, “I need to talk to you guys about something.”

  Three faces turned toward him immediately, exactly as if they’d been expecting this. Ivan in particular looked partly terrified, partly relieved. His face was far more haggard than Martin ever remembered seeing it.

  Briefly, Martin described the dream again, elaborated the changes that had taken place in its plot, and apologized to Chloe for implying that he’d stopped having it. When he’d finished talking, he glanced at Ivan, encouragingly, and to his great surprise, Ivan spoke right up, admitting his own complicity in the secret, and even going a bit further in saying, “I’m not sure, and I know how stupid this sounds, Martin, but I think we’re dreaming this stuff for a reason. This house—or someone or something in it—is trying to tell us something. I never believed in this kind of stuff, but it’s getting to the point where…” He trailed off, waving his hand. “Hell, I don’t know. If you girls are having the dream, too, then you should probably tell us so we can get a handle on what we’re dealing with here.” He looked at Martin for confirmation. Martin nodded.

  As soon as Ivan finished speaking, the room fell utterly silent—even the sounds of chewing and sipping had ceased. Obviously, the little speech had struck a nerve—either that, or the others couldn’t believe how crazy it sounded, Martin thought, a little bitterly.

  Finally, Chloe sighed and sat up. “I guess I’m the one who should be apologizing, Martin,” she said, smoothing her long hair back over her neck and shoulders. “I’ve been having the dream, too, exactly like you described it. It started a few days after you first told me about yours. At first, I thought it was just because you’d told me about it, so I didn’t bother saying anything. I didn’t really think it was important. After that, well…” She looked down at her hands. “After that, I guess I was scared to tell you. I was sort of hoping it would all just go away by itself.”

  Ivan was nodding. “Yes, we’re both familiar with that feeling. It doesn’t look like we’re going to get our wish. Lately, they’ve been getting—well, not worse, exactly, but…”

  “More intense,” Martin broke in. “More detailed.”

  “Yeah.”

  Olivia set her coffee mug down on the table. “Well, I guess it won’t shock anyone to know I’ve been having the dream, too. For the last couple of weeks.” She crossed her arms and collapsed back against the sofa cushions. “I wonder why I was the last one to start having it. I’m always the last one to know anything.”

  “Don’t feel bad,” Ivan said, patting her knee. “It’s not a race or anything.”

  Martin smiled, but his insides boiled and squirmed. He didn’t know whether to feel vindicated or unsettled by these developments. He certainly felt less alone, and he supposed that was a good thing. He found he couldn’t blame Chloe or Olivia for their reticence about the dreams. After all, he’d done the same thing, and for largely the same reasons. “Well, now that everything’s out in the open,” he said, then paused. “Everything is out in the open, right? No one’s seen or heard or dreamed anything else we might need to know about, have they?”

  They all laughed—the strange yet exhilarated laughs of death-row prisoners given a six-month reprieve—but all shook their heads.

  “Okay, then.” Martin wasn’t sure how they wordlessly elected him leader of this little mission, or whatever it was, but the fact was unmistakable, and clearly readable in the hopeful expressions of the others. He gestured toward his best friend. “Ivan and I have been talking about maybe taking down that wall on the landing. Or at least knocking a hole in it to see if anything’s back there.”

  “You’re going to tear out a wall just because we’ve been having some weird nightmares?” Olivia said.

  “We’ve all been having them,” Ivan pointed out. “Don’t you feel like it’s something we need to do?”

  Olivia shrugged and mumbled something.

  “I don’t know about this, either,” Chloe said. “I mean, I want to know what’s going on as much as you do, and I want the dreams to stop. Is tearing up the place really going to answer any questions?”

  “I know it sounds a little extreme,” Martin said. “It’s not that big a deal, really. If we don’t find anything, we’ll just call ourselves complete idiots, patch the hole back up, and forget all about it.”

  “You’d think if the dreams were actually trying to tell us something, then they’d be a little clearer on what it is we’re supposed to do,” Chloe pointed out. “I mean, I’m not saying I’m totally against this, I’m just mentioning it.”

  “Look, I know none of us are experts on this type of thing,” said Martin. “I’m scared, and I’m confused. I willingly admit that; but really, other than the cost of repairing a hole in the wall, what har
m could it do to just have a look?”

  “Let me ask you guys this,” Olivia said, speaking quietly and glancing at each of them in turn. “Let’s say that there is something behind the walls that the dreams are telling us to find. What if the something behind the wall is a bad thing? What if something in this house wants us to tear out the wall, to sort of…I don’t know, release it? Like a demon, or something.” Olivia was hugging her knees to her chest. “Jesus, that’s lame. You get the idea.”

  Martin had to admit he hadn’t thought of that, and he cursed himself silently for his stupidity. How could he have missed something so obvious? “In the dream,” he said, realizing he sounded defensive, but unable to stop himself, “I felt like whatever was behind there was protecting me, like it was safe there. It was protecting me from what was outside…” He knew he was making excuses, and besides, they’d all had the same dream, so why was he telling them about it? He shut up.

  “That could be just what the demon wants you to think, that you’re safe in the house,” Olivia said. She was smirking a little, but her eyes were deadly serious.

  “I hate to say it, but she might be right,” said Ivan. “I don’t think we know enough about the situation to risk…unleashing something.” He rolled his eyes. “Man, I can’t believe I just said that out loud.”

  “No, I agree with you,” said Chloe. “As much as I want to know what’s happening, I think we should be sensible. We’ll have to consider the possibility that the dreams could be some kind of trick.” She thought for a second, tapping her fingers on her coffee cup. “Maybe we should do some more research about the house’s history. We never really found out that much about it, except for a few things about Crandall and the house being abandoned a long time ago. There should be deeds on record, or the plans from when it was built, or more about the guy who used to live here, since he was somewhat famous. Maybe I could check out the library, county property records, stuff like that. See what I can find out.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Martin. “I could even help you with that, too, when we’re not horribly busy. Or do some research on the internet.”

  “Yeah,” Ivan said, plainly a little disappointed that the destruction would have to be delayed a while longer. “We’ll do the boringly sensible thing and gather more data. Not like there’s any rush to find the hundred million in gold doubloons buried behind the landing wall.”

  Olivia laughed. “Or maybe Crandall rigged it so that when we punch a hole in the wall, we’ll pull out a white rabbit.”

  They all cracked up at that, and finished their coffee and cookies in good humor. For all the rest of that evening, though, Martin couldn’t stop thinking about Crandall the Conjuror. Maybe that long-gone old man had some tricks up his sleeve after all.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bellwether had so far accumulated a total of twenty-five members, and Father told them that Mother had decided it was time for another crack at the white house in the woods. Lily didn’t know why this was, and couldn’t help feeling that she had failed somewhat—for surely the house wasn’t important anymore, now that the church was doing so well? Mother and Father knew all, and if they wanted to go back to the house, then this was obviously the right thing to do.

  So, seeking to please, Lily nearly tripped over her own feet rushing to ask if she could accompany them. She could feel Rose’s gaze boring into her back as she talked, but she simply tossed her hair and straightened her shoulders. Rose was just jealous because she hadn’t been the first to think of asking. Rose had Sammy now, and Lily still had no one.

  Father looked doubtful about the proposition, his bald forehead rucking up like wrinkles in a rug, his dark eyes glowering. Mother was stooped beside him, her crooked form covered with its thick woolen shawls, her face a mass of black fabric with just the glint of eyes behind. She leaned toward Father and hissed something in his ear. Father listened and then grumbled a little. He stared down at Lily. “Mother says you have been with her since the beginning, and should be given the opportunity,” he said. Lily could tell that Father didn’t entirely agree, but what choice did he have but to acquiesce?

  So it came to pass that Lily found herself in the back seat of the big blue car again, staring at the scenery between the shadowed profiles of Mother and Father. The road was the same as she remembered it, of course, but this time night was falling, so that the trees flanking the street blended into one enormous black mass, a huge misshapen ogre towering above the tiny automobile, poised to strike at any moment.

  They passed no other vehicles, and it seemed a very long time before Father turned onto the dirt track that terminated at the old house. The headlights picked out a few overhanging branches, the tire marks of other cars embedded in the sand, and the occasional small woodland creature, which would appear and then vanish with no more than a glint of its luminescent eyes. Crickets chirruped from the woods, but other than that and the throaty growl of the car’s engine, there was no sound. Father didn’t speak a word.

  The house materialized so swiftly that it seemed to have leaped in front of the car. The driveway was empty, but even in the dark, Lily could see tire tracks forging a path to the back of the house. Most of the downstairs lights were on, and she thought she could see shadows moving behind the curtains. She shivered, remembering that first day, the figure in the window, how spooky it had looked before she had seen the dark-haired man properly. All the upstairs windows were dark.

  Lily wondered if the people inside had heard their car engine or seen the headlights, and evidently Father was thinking the same thing, for he killed the lights and drove very slowly past the side of the house and around toward the back, where Lily assumed the people who lived here parked their cars. Father pulled level with an ancient Corolla, then turned off the engine. The three of them sat silently in the darkness for a long moment. The metal of a few other cars glinted in the feeble light from the house’s back windows, but Lily couldn’t clearly make them out.

  Mother was drumming her claw-like fingers on her thighs and peering out into the night; the gold bracelets on her wrists jangled with every movement. Without a sound, she pointed out the window. Lily stared, but she couldn’t see what Mother was pointing at.

  Father was looking and nodding his head, obviously understanding the situation. “Yes, maybe that would be the easiest way, just so we could see…”

  Lily still didn’t know what they were talking about, and didn’t much like the idea of simply sitting here in the car in the dark, but Father turned in his seat to look at her. His eyes were like two black shiny marbles. “We need you to do something for us,” he said.

  Lily perked up—yes, she wanted to say, yes, anything—but she was a little afraid to; Father was looking at her so intently. “What is it?” she asked.

  Mother pointed again, out into the darkness. Father translated the gesture. “We’d like you to climb up that fire escape there and see if you can get into one of the second-floor doors or windows,” he said. “Not the first floor—we want to try not to attract any attention.”

  Lily was frightened by the prospect of breaking and entering, but she knew better than to say this out loud. She lowered her head, unable to bear any more of her master’s scrutiny. “What do you want me to do once I get in?” she said quietly.

  “Don’t worry about that right now,” Father answered. “Let’s just see if you can get in first.”

  Lily glanced up. He was still staring at her, not exactly unkindly, but with a look behind his eyes that definitively told her that he expected her complete obedience. Lily was prepared to meet his expectations, as nervous as she was; lowering her head again, this time with deference, acceptance, she pushed open her car door and got out, feeling her shoes immediately sinking an inch or two into the damp sand. Lily didn’t say anything to her masters, although she could feel that they were still watching her, Mother from behind her co
ncealing layers of clothing.

  Closing the car door softly, Lily began to make her way across the backyard to the imposing white structure, which wasn’t as grand from the back as from the front, but still embodied a stately magnificence. She had to weave her way through a few other cars parked haphazardly in the plowed-up sand, and, in the dark, she stubbed her toe on a fallen tree branch. She thought she could hear music and faraway laughter from somewhere in the vicinity of the lighted first floor. For a brief moment, she wished that she was an invited guest here, that the people behind the bright windows were waiting for her, and would welcome her into their laughter. She pushed the feeling away; she had a job to do.

  There were wooden steps leading up to a darkened, screened-in back porch, but a few yards to the right of these was another set of steps, these made of painted white metal and ending at a door on the second story. There was also a sort of platform or deck over the porch, which could be accessed from the fire escape, or from the large French windows to the left of the door. Even in the dark, Lily could see the ghosts of lawn chairs up there, made of PVC pipe that glimmered white under the moon.

  She stopped at the base of the fire escape and slipped off her shoes, thinking they would make too much noise on the metal stairs. She wasn’t sure if she was afraid of the people in the house or not. The man she’d seen that first day hadn’t looked terribly scary, but what about the others? Would they hurt her if they caught her out here, or call the police, who might take her away from Mother and Father forever? The thought made her pause before she set foot on the fire escape. Her stomach was fluttering. To be parted from Mother and Father, to never see them again or be able to bask in their presence… Well, she couldn’t think of anything worse than that. She would rather have the people in the house catch her and beat her to death on their porch steps.

  Gathering her courage, she mounted the stairs and began to climb them on tiptoe, feeling rough grains of sand on the metal, chafing against her bare feet. She wondered if Mother and Father could see her, resplendent in her favorite pink sundress, the one she always wore for special occasions. She wondered if they had seen her hesitate, and whether they would punish her for her reluctance. She swallowed. She wouldn’t hesitate again.