Deeper into the park, a dank mist made her cough and, behind her, Ardis patted her back sympathetically. She quivered like a length of supple steel under his touch, and when she had stopped coughing and the hand still remained on her shoulder, she knew what he would attempt here in the darkness.
She quickened her stride. The hand left her shoulder and hooked at her arm. She yanked her arm free and ran down the path, stumbling on her stilt heels. There was a muffled exclamation from Ardis, and she heard the swift pound of his feet as he pursued her. The path led down a slight depression and past a marshy little pond. The earth turned moist and sucked at her feet. In the warmth of the night her skin began to prickle and perspire, but the sound of his panting was close behind her.
Her breath was coming in gasps, and when the path veered and began to mount, she felt her lungs would burst. Her legs were aching and it seemed that at the next instant she would flounder to the ground. Dimly through the trees, she made out the iron gate at the other side of the park, and with the little strength left to her, she redoubled her efforts to reach it.
But what, she wondered dizzily, what after that? He'll overtake me in the street—Perhaps before the street—I should have turned for the car—I could have driven—I—
He clutched at her shoulder as she passed the gate and she would have surrendered at that moment. Then she heard voices and saw figures on the street across from her. She cried, "Hello, there!" and ran to them, her shoes clattering on the pavement. As she came close, still free for the moment, they turned.
"So sorry," she babbled. "Thought I recognized you . . . Was walking through the par—"
She stopped short. Staring at her were Finchley, Braugh, and Lady Sutton.
"Sidra, darling! What the devil are you doing here?" Lady Sutton demanded. She cocked her gross head forward to examine Sidra's face, then nudged at Braugh. and Finchley with her elbows. "The girl's been running through the park. Mark my words, Chris, she's touched."
"Looks like she's been chivvied," Braugh answered. He stepped to one side and peered past Sidra's shoulder, his white head gleaming in the starlight.
Sidra caught her breath at last and looked about. Ardis stood alongside her, calm and affable as ever. There was, she thought helplessly, no use trying to explain. No one would believe her. No one would help. She said: "Just a bit of exercise. It was such a lovely night."
"Exercise!" Lady Sutton snorted. "Now I know you're cracked."
Finchley said, "Why'd you pop off like that, Sidra? Bob was furious. We've just been driving him home."
"I—" It was too insane. She'd seen Finchley vanish through the veil of fire less than an hour ago—vanish into a world of his own choosing. Yet here he was asking questions.
Ardis murmured, "Finchley was in your world, too. He's still here."
"But that's impossible!" Sidra exclaimed. "There can't be two Finchleys."
"Two Finchleys?" Lady Sutton echoed. "Now I know where you've been and gone, my girl! You're drunk. Reeling, stinking drunk. Running through the park! Exercise! Two Finchleys!"
And Lady Sutton? But she was dead. She had to be! They'd murdered her less than—
Again Ardis murmured, "That was another world ago, Sidra. This is your new world, and Lady Sutton belongs in it, Everyone belongs in it—except your husband."
"But. . . even though she's dead?"
Finchley started and asked, "Who's dead?"
"I think," Braugh said, "we'd better get her upstairs and put her to bed."
"No," Sidra said. "No—there's no need—really! I'm all right."
"Oh, let her be!" Lady Sutton grunted. She gathered her coat around her tub of a waist and moved off. "You know our motto, m'lads. 'Never Interfere.' See you and Bob at the shelter next week, Sidra. 'Night—"
"Good night."
Finchley and Braugh moved off, too—the three figures merging with the shadows in a misty fade-out. And as they vanished, Sidra heard Braugh: "The motto ought to be "Unashamed.'"
"Nonsense," Finchley answered. "Shame is a sensation we seek like all others. It reduc—"
Then they were gone.
And with a return of that frightened chill, Sidra realized that they had not seen Ardis—nor heard him—nor even been aware of his—
"Naturally," Ardis interrupted.
"But how, naturally?"
"You'll understand later. Just now we've a murder before us."
"No!" she cried, hanging back. "No!"
"How's this, Sidra? And after you've looked forward to this moment for so many years. Planned it. Feasted on it—"
"I'm . . . too upset. . . unnerved."
"You'll be calmer. Come along."
Together they walked a few steps down the narrow street, turned up the gravel path and passed the gate that led to the back court. As Ardis reached out for the knob of the servants' door, he hesitated and turned to her.
"This," he said, "is your moment, Sidra. It begins now. This is the time when you break that chain and make payment for a life's worth of agony. This is the day when you balance the account. Love is good—hate is better. Forgiveness is a trifling virtue—passion is all-consuming and the end-all of living!"
He pushed open the door, grasped her elbow and dragged her after him into the pantry—It was dark and filled with odd corners. They eased through the blackness cautiously, reached the swinging door that led to the kitchen, and pushed past it, Sidra uttered a faint moan and sagged against Ardis.
It had been a kitchen at one time. Now the stoves and sinks, cupboards and tables, chairs, closets and all, loomed high and twisted like the tangle of an insane jungle. A dull-blue spark glittered on the floor, and around it cavorted a score of singing shadows.
They were solidified smoke—semiliquid gas. Their translucent depths writhed and interplayed with the nauseating surge of living muck. Like looking through a microscope, Sidra thought, at those creatures that foul corpse-blood, that scum a slack-water stream, that fill a swamp with noisome vapors—And most hideous of all, they were all in the wavering gusty image of her husband. Twenty Robert Peels, gesticulating obscenely and singing a whispered chorus:
"Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa
Perfusus liquidis urget odoribus
Grato, Sidra, sub antro?"
"Ardis! What is this?"
"Don't know yet, Sidra."
"But these shapes!"
"We'll find out."
Twenty leaping vapors crowded around them, still chanting. Sidra and Ardis were driven forward and stood at the brink of that sapphire spark that burned in the air a few inches above the floor. Gaseous fingers pushed and probed at Sidra, pinched and prodded while the blue figures cavorted with hissing laughter, slapping their naked rumps in weird ecstasies.
A slash on Sidra's arm made her start and cry out, and when she looked down, unaccountable beads of blood stood out on the white skin of her wrist. And even as she stared in disembodied enchantment, her wrist was raised to Ardis's lips. Then his wrist was raised to her mouth and she felt the stinging salt of his blood on her lips.
"No!" she gasped. "I don't believe this. You're making me see this."
She turned and ran from the kitchen toward the serving pantry. Ardis was close behind her. And the blue shapes still hissed a droning chorus:
"Qui nunc te fruitur credulus aurea;
Qui semper vacuam, semper amabilem,
Sperat, nescius aurae
Fallacia—"
When they reached the foot of the winding stairs that led to the upper floors, Sidra clutched at the balustrade for support. With her free hand she dabbed at her mouth to erase the salt taste that made her stomach crawl.
"I think I've an idea what all that was," Ardis said.
She stared at him.
"A sort of betrothal ceremony," he went on casually. "You've read of something like that before, haven't you? Odd, wasn't it? Some powerful influences in this house. Recognize those phantoms?"
She shook her head weari
ly. What was the use of thinking—talking?
"Didn't, eh? We'll have to see about this. I never cared for unsolicited haunting. We shan't have any more of this tomfoolery in the future—" He mused for a moment, then pointed to the stairs. "Your husband's up there, I think. Let's continue."
They trudged up the sweeping, gloomy stairs, and the last vestiges of Sidra's sanity struggled up, step by step, with her.
One: You go up the stairs. Stairs leading to what? More madness? That damned Thing in the shelter!
Two: This is hell, not reality.
Three: Or nightmare. Yes! Nightmare. Lobster last night. Where were we last night, Bob and I?
Four: Dear Bob. Why did I ever—And this Ardis. I know why he's so familiar. Why he almost speaks my thoughts. He's probably some-
Five:—nice young man who plays tennis in real life. Distorted by a dream. Yes.
Six-
Seven—
"Don't run into it," Ardis cautioned.
She halted in her tracks and simply stared. There were no more screams or shudders left in her. She simply stared at the thing that hung with a twisted head from the beam over the stair landing. It was her husband limp and slack, dangling at the end of a length of laundry rope.
The limp figure swayed ever so slightly, like the gentle swing of a massive pendulum. The mouth was wrinkled into a sardonic grin and the eyes popped from their sockets and glanced down at her with impudent humor. Vaguely, Sidra was aware that ascending steps behind it showed through the twisted form.
"Join hands," the corpse said in sacrosanct tones.
"Bob!"
"Your husband?" Ardis exclaimed.
"Dearly beloved," the corpse began, "we are gathered together in the sight of God and in the face of this company to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is—" The voice boomed on and on and on.
"Bob!" Sidra croaked.
"Kneel!" the corpse commanded.
Sidra flung herself to one side and ran stumbling up the stairs. She faltered for a gasping instant, then Ardis's strong hands grasped her. Behind them the shadowy corpse intoned: "I pronounce you man and wife."
Ardis whispered, "We must be quick, now! Very quick!"
But at the head of the stairs Sidra made a last bid for liberty. She abandoned all hope of sanity, of understanding. All she wanted was freedom and a place where she could sit in solitude, free of the passions that were hedging her in, gutting her soul. There was no word spoken, no gesture made. She drew herself up and faced Ardis squarely. This was one of the times, she understood, when you fought like petroglyphs carved on prehistoric rock.
For minutes they stood, facing each other in the dark hall. To their right was the descending well of the stairs; to the left, Sidra's bedroom; behind them, the short hallway that led to Peel's study—to the room where he was so unconsciously awaiting slaughter. Their eyes met, clashed and battled silently. And even as Sidra met that deep, gleaming glance, she knew with an agonizing sense of desperation that she would lose.
There was no longer any will, any strength, any courage left in her. Worse, by some spectral osmosis it seemed to have drained out of her into the man who faced her. While she fought she realized that her rebellion was like that of a hand or a finger rebelling against its guiding brain.
Only one sentence she spoke: "For Heaven's sake! Who are you?'
And again he answered: "You'll find out—soon. But I think you know already. I think you know!"
Helpless, she turned and entered her bedroom. There was a revolver there and she understood she was to get it. But when she pulled open the drawer and yanked aside the piles of silk clothes to pick it up, the clothes felt thick and moist. As she hesitated, Ardis reached past her and picked up the gun. Clinging to the butt, a finger tight-clenched around the trigger, was a hand, the stump of the wrist clotted and torn.
Ardis clucked impatiently and tried to pry the hand loose. It would not give. He pressed and twisted a finger at a time and still the sickening corpse-hand clenched the gun stubbornly. Sidra sat at the edge of the bed like a child, watching the spectacle with naive interest, noting the way the broken muscles and tendons on the stump flexed as Ardis tugged.
There was a crimson snake oozing from under the bathroom door. It writhed across the hardwood floor, thickening to a small river as it touched her skirt so gently. When Ardis tossed the gun down angrily, he noted the stream. Quickly he stepped to the bathroom and thrust open the door, then slammed it a second later. He jerked his head at Sidra and said, "Come on!"
She nodded mechanically and arose, careless of the sopping skirt that smacked against her calves. At Peel's study she turned the doorknob carefully until a faint click warned her that the latch was open, then she pushed the door in. The leaf swung wide to reveal her husband's study in semidarkness. The desk was before the high window curtains and Peel sat at it, his back to them. He was hunched over a candle or a lamp or some light that enhaloed his body and sent streams of rays flickering out. He never moved.
Sidra tiptoed forward, then paused. Ardis touched a finger to lips and moved like a swift cat to the cold fireplace where he picked up the heavy bronze poker. He brought it to Sidra and held it out urgently. Her hand reached of its own accord and took the cool metal handle. Her fingers gripped it as though they had been born for murder.
Against all that impelled her to advance and raise the poker over Peel's head, something weak and sick inside her cried out and prayed; cried, prayed and moaned with the whimpering, of a fevered child. Like spilt water, the last few drops of her self-possession trembled before they disappeared altogether.
Then Ardis touched her. His finger pressed against the small of her back and a charge of bestiality shocked up her, spine with cruel, jagged edges. Surging with hatred, rage, and livid vindictiveness, she raised the poker high and crashed it down on the still-motionless head of her husband.
The entire room burst into a silent explosion. Lights flared and shadows whirled. Remorselessly, she clubbed and pounded at the falling body that toppled out of the chair to the floor. She struck again and again, her breath whistling hysterically, until the head was a mashed, bloodied pulp. Only then did she let the poker drop and reel back.
Ardis knelt beside the body and turned it over.
"He's dead all right. This is the moment you prayed for, Sidra. You're free!"
She looked down in horror. Dully, from the crimsoned carpet, a corpse face stared back. It showed the drawn, high-strung features, the coal-black eyes, the coal-black hair dipping over the brow in a sharp widow's peak. She moaned, as understanding touched her.
The face said, "This is Sidra Peel. In this man whom you have slaughtered you have killed yourself—killed the only part of yourself worth saving."
She cried, "Aieee—" and clasped arms about herself, rocking in agony.
"Look well on me," the face said. "By my death you have broken a chain—only to find another."
And she knew. She understood. For though she still rocked and moaned in the agony that would be never-ending, she saw Ardis arise and advance on her with arms outstretched. His eyes gleamed and were horrid pools, and his reaching arms were tendrils of her own unslaked passion, eager to enfold her. And once embraced, she knew there would be no escape—no escape from this sickening marriage to her own lusts that would forever caress her.
So it would be forevermore in Sidra's brave new world.
IV
After the others had passed the veil, Christian Braugh still lingered in the shelter. He lit another cigarette with a simulation Of Perfect aplomb, blew out the match, then called: "Er . . . Mr. Thing?"
"What is it, Mr. Braugh?"
Brough could not restrain a slight start at that voice sounding from nowhere. "I—well, the fact is, I stayed for a chat."
"I thought you would, Mr. Braugh."
"You did, eh?"
"Your insatiable hunger for fresh material is no mystery to me."
"Oh!" Brau
gh looked around nervously. "I see."
"Nor is there any cause for alarm. No one will overhear us. Your masquerade will remain undetected."
"Masquerade!"
"You're not really a bad man, Mr. Braugh. You've never belonged in the Sutton shelter clique."
Braugh laughed sardonically.
"And there's no need to continue your sham before me," the voice continued in the friendliest manner. "I know the story of your many plagiarisms was merely another concoction of the fertile imagination of Christian Braugh."
"You know?"
"Of course. You created that legend to obtain entree to the shelter. For years you've been playing the role of a lying scoundrel, even though your blood ran cold at times."
"And do you know why I did that?"
"Certainly. As a matter of fact, Mr. Braugh, I know almost everything, but I do confess that one thing about you still confuses me."
"What's that?"
"Why, with that devouring appetite for fresh material, were you not content to work as other authors do, with what you know? Why this almost insane desire for unique material—for absolutely untrodden fields? Why were you willing to pay a bitter and exorbitant price for a few ounces of novelty?"
"Why?" Braugh sucked in smoke and exhaled it past clenched teeth. "You'd understand if you were human. I take it you're not. . . ?"
"That question cannot be answered."
"Then I'll tell you why. It's something that's been torturing me all my life. A man is born with imagination."
"Ah . . . imagination."
"If his imagination is slight, a man will always find the world a source of deep and infinite wonder, a place of many delights. But if his imagination is strong, vivid, restless, he finds the world a sorry place indeed—a drab jade beside the wonders of his own creations!"
"There are wonders past all imagining."
"For whom? Not for me, my invisible friend; nor for any earth-bound, flesh-bound creature. Man is a pitiful thing. Born with the imagination of gods and forever pasted to a round lump of clay and spittle. I have within me the uniqueness, the ego, the fertile loam of a timeless spirit. . . and all that wealth is wrapped in a parcel of quickly rotting skin!"
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