by Robert Bloch
Eric Dunstable was thin, bearded, bespectacled, and bowlegged; at first glance he looked like a tall Toulouse-Lautrec.
Not that she held any conscious bias against painters, handicapped or otherwise. But there was more to this package than just the wrappings. Behind the thick-lensed glasses the left eye twitched spasmodically with a life of its own. The rhythmic tic was disturbing, a soundless punctuation to the words that issued in a hoarse half whisper, accompanied by gesticulations of bony hands and almost pencil-thin fingers.
All right, Amy told herself, so he isn’t exactly a Rambo. Just who and what he was were questions for which she needed immediate answers. Instead, she asked, “How did you know I was coming here?”
“I knew.” His eyes twitched at her across the threshold. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”
“Of course, Mr. Dunstable.” Amy covered embarrassment with a nervous giggle, then checked herself as he entered. This was not the time or place for schoolgirlish giggling, but the nervousness was real. Not because she had a man in her hotel room—if indeed this wimpish weirdo was a man—but because of that simple phrase he had half whispered in response to her question. She gestured to him to take a seat in the armchair at the far corner of near the window, and as he did so she spoke.
“You said you knew I’d be coming here. What made you so certain?”
Dunstable shrugged. “There’s nothing mysterious about it, Miss Haines. I read the same papers and listen to the same newscasts as you do. And when I learned about what had happened here last week it became obvious why you left town so suddenly and what your destination would be.”
“Then I hope you’ll forgive my breaking our appointment,” Amy said. “I really should have let you know, but I left in such a hurry—”
“I quite understand.” Dunstable nodded and twitched at her. “What’s really important is that you arrived when you did. If you hadn’t seen the Sheriff this afternoon I’m afraid I might still be behind bars.”
Amy pulled the chair out from behind the little writing desk and seated herself. “You came here by bus?”
Dunstable nodded. “I don’t drive,” he said. “And I have a strong aversion to plane travel. ‘The demons of the air,’ I suppose.”
It was Amy’s turn to nod, but she wasn’t quite sure what she was nodding at. “Demons of the air”—was that meant to be some sort of joke or was it a serious allusion? She vaguely remembered the phrase as a quotation but couldn’t recall its source. What she did remember was another question relative to the same subject, and this was her chance to ask it now.
“Just what is a demonologist?”
Eric Dunstable actually smiled. “A demonologist is not necessarily an old man with a long white beard, dressed in flowing robes and wearing something that looks like a dunce cap. He’s not a sorcerer or black magician, carries no magic wand, and has no magic powers. For that matter, a demonologist isn’t even necessarily a he. There are women who study the subject too—and I suppose that’s as good a definition as any. A demonologist is a student.”
“Please, Mr. Dunstable, don’t hide behind the dictionary definition.” Amy leaned forward. “I’m interested in how you got into all this, and just exactly what it is that you do.”
“I can tell you how I got into all this, as you put it. I’m a failed seminarian. Not because of my grades, but because of my faith—or lack of it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I. That was the insolvable problem. To me, the theological concept of good and evil seems valid and self-evident. But while modern religion pays lip service to the abstraction it rejects the reality behind it.”
“In other words, you are saying you believe demons are real?”
“It’s not a question of belief. I know.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“No.” Again the whisper, again the tic. “A demon is a discarnate entity—it’s incorporeal. The shapes it may assume when conjured up are, of course, hallucinatory. Perhaps a psychologist versed in ethnology and anthropology could explain why a Tibetan demon would appear radically different than a Nigerian or a Romanian one.”
It crossed Amy’s mind that she should be taking notes, but the thought vanished almost as quickly as it came. Better to channel it through a more direct route—in one ear and out the other. Nevertheless she wanted to hear more. “You say that demons are disembodied and appear only as hallucinations. How can you prove they exist if you can’t see them?”
“One sees them indirectly through the people whom they possess.”
Much to her surprise, Amy didn’t find it all that easy to smile in response. Sitting late at night in a strange room in a strange town with a strange man who might have come straight out of a horror comic wasn’t really all that disturbing. It was obviously Dunstable who was, in a polite euphemism, disturbed, and that didn’t alarm her. What did was her own reaction to what they were talking about. It was all superstition, of course; this much she knew and accepted on the intellectual level.
But below that level, far below, below common sense and even consciousness, something stirred.
“Just how do people become ‘possessed’?” she said.
Dunstable shrugged. “Think of evil as a communicable disease. A virus attacks the body when one’s defenses are down. Evil seeks out entry points in the mind and spirit.”
Amy frowned. “Are you talking about hypnosis?”
“This has nothing to do with suggestion. Possession takes advantage of situations involving loss of conscious control—during anesthesia, nightmares, at the extremes of manic-depressive states, or in some situations involving drug abuse, including alcohol.” His tic winked at her in the lamplight. “Of course the easiest point of entry is during heightened emotional states—extreme rage, hysteria, sexual or religious frenzy.”
Amy found herself smiling. “I know some people who might take offense at your last two examples.”
“I know a lot of people who might just tell me I’m flat-out crazy,” he said. “But in my profession I’ve learned to accept this as an occupational hazard.”
Amy shook her head. “You told me demonologists are students. Now you say what you’re doing is a profession. Are you talking about things like ghost-hunting or witch-finding?”
Eric Dunstable’s nictitation served as confirmation. “Hunting and finding, yes. But it’s after that the real work begins.”
“Which is—?”
“Exorcism.” The hoarse voice placed odd and added emphasis on the second syllable.
So that’s it, Amy told herself. She glanced up quickly. “But I thought exorcism can only be performed by ordained members of the clergy.”
“Exactly the sentiments of the faculty at the seminary.” The bearded man sighed. “They expelled me when they learned I’d been experimenting on my own.” He shrugged. “I’ve been on my own ever since. Fortunately, my parents left me a modest inheritance some years ago, so I’m more or less free to live as I choose. And while I was denied elevation to holy orders, I don’t need to take orders from anyone, holy or otherwise.”
Amy waited for the tic, then broke in. “Is that what you intended to do when they caught you trying to enter the Bates place?”
“That house has an aura of evil—I could feel it.” Behind the thick lenses his eyes caught hers in a solemn stare. “Death lurks there.”
Again Amy felt something stirring deep below the level of consciousness, something that reacted irrationally to all this nonsense about death and demons. Death, of course, was, is, and will be a reality, but demons—
“This isn’t why you wanted to see me in Chicago,” she said. “Neither of us knew about the house then. I’m here because I want to write a book about Norman Bates.”
“And I came to exorcise the demon that possessed him.”
Why didn’t I quit when I was ahead? Amy asked herself. But it was too late now. “It’s generally believed Norman assumed the personality of his mo
ther. That doesn’t exactly fit your definition of demonic possession. And it wouldn’t matter if it did. You can’t exorcise a dead man, and Norman Bates is dead.”
“The demon still exists.” In this context, Dunstable’s wink was almost confidential. “When Norman died it took possession of Adam Claiborne. It left him last week to seek out another instrument for its purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“The ultimate purpose of evil is to destroy, to kill. Often its essence as an entity is nourished by returning to its former haunts. That’s why it came to the Bates house the other night and took over whoever it was that killed the little girl. Then it returned to Claiborne, when he attacked Dr. Steiner. After Claiborne collapsed I think it went on to a stronger, healthier body. If it left Claiborne then, someone else in this town must be possessed.”
“How can you tell?”
A pause, a blink, a shrug. “I can’t. But I understand they’re holding a memorial service for that little girl tomorrow. Everyone will be there.” The hoarse voice sounded its own echo. “That’s when I’ll know.”
— 9 —
Amy was free to sleep in, and because her sleep proved to be mercifully free of nightmares, it was midmorning when she awoke.
Strangely enough, the lengthy rest didn’t seem to have refreshed her. Perhaps it was the fault of the weather; as she opened the window it became obvious that the day would be hot, muggy, overcast. It was too warm and too gloomy, and so was she.
The source of the warmth was obvious, but the reason for gloom eluded her. Even under cloudy skies, in the morning light her impressions of Eric Dunstable clearly revealed him for what he was. She only wished he hadn’t shown up here to complicate her own situation. But neither his unwelcome presence nor his equally unwelcome prescience could account for her feeling of depression.
Most likely what bothered her was the idea of attending today’s memorial service for Terry Dowson. Yes, that was it.
Amy always tried to avoid funerals, and had no strong desire to attend her own. Even though on this present occasion the corpse and casket would be absent, she had an uneasy feeling about the whole affair.
Maybe breakfast would help. But when she slid the watch onto her wrist after showering Amy realized that the best description of the meal would be brunch. There was no question of wearing her best for an appearance in the downstairs coffee shop. Memorial service didn’t begin until three o’clock, so she’d have plenty of time to change into more formal attire before driving out.
The coffee shop was deserted; Amy had slipped through the crack between breakfast and lunch. For a moment she wondered if would have been a polite gesture to invite Eric Dunstable to join her. But if she had, he’d probably bring his theories about possession with him, and she wanted no part of demons in her present mood or present meal. Checking the sandwiches on the menu, Amy quickly decided against the deviled ham.
What she did order was satisfactory, and after her second cup of coffee she was able to consider Dunstable with less distaste. Could anything that he had told her last night be of possible use to her when she sat down to write the book?
For a moment the notion seemed tempting; including such fantasizing would add a touch of spice to the dull fare of data she’d accumulated. But such sensationalism would defeat her purpose. The book must deal with murder and its impact on a small town, and do so realistically. So thank you and good-bye, Mr. Dunstable.
Thank you and good-bye to the waitress-cashier, then back upstairs. Once again in her room, Amy checked the wedge of sky beyond the window and noted little improvement. Adjusting the thermostat made the air-conditioning unit hum in a lower key but didn’t seem to lower the temperature. It was going to be sticky at the memorial services, in more ways than one.
Amy pulled out her notebook and sat down at the tiny desk in the chair which Eric Dunstable had occupied last night. Which was appropriate enough, inasmuch as she was jotting down what she remembered of his conversation.
But why? Amy paused for a moment, frowning. Hadn’t she just told herself that this material would be wrong for her purposes? What prompted her to waste time making notes about invisible entities commuting back and forth between various bodies in order to do the Devil’s work?
Or had Dunstable mentioned the Devil? She couldn’t recall, but what she did remember kept her occupied throughout the noon hour. Amy still hadn’t changed her mind, but just in case she ever did, the notes were there.
Now it was time for a careful application of makeup and a careful decision about dress. Obviously the occasion called for wearing something dark and discreet, which left her with no choice at all. The only garment fitting that description was the heavy suit she’d hastily folded up in the overnight bag before making her hurried trip to O’Hare Airport the other day. What would have been cool and comfortable for Chicago was hot and irksome here; the suit was unsuitable, but so be it.
She put on the skirt before putting on makeup, then donned her blouse and jacket just before departure. The outfit looked better than it felt, but she knew she would welcome the air-conditioning in her car because it worked as well as hummed.
There were only three people in the lobby, none of whom Amy recognized as she crossed to the exit. The sky outside withheld sight of the sun but filtered its fire as she made her way into the parking area. Approaching the rental car she was surprised to find it a bit smaller than she had remembered. For some reason or other its height seemed to have shrunk overnight, or had it merely wilted in the midday heat?
No such thing. Some bastard had slashed the tires. Amy seethed, steamed, then boiled over.
There was no doubt about what happened; the deep gashes scoring the treads were outrageously obvious. And Amy was obviously outraged as she marched up to the counter of the reception desk to report what she’d discovered.
Young Chambers stared at her, but neither his eyes nor his features registered any hint of emotional reaction. He told her he was sorry, he couldn’t imagine what had happened, they’d never had anything like this here before, and several other lies. At least Amy thought they were lies, but she really didn’t give a damn. All she wanted now—and insisted on—was for the clerk to call the nearest service station and get somebody over here immediately.
Immediately turned out to be twenty minutes later. The pickup that pulled into the parking slot beside her car came from SMITTY’S SERVICE STATION and its driver was none other than Smitty himself. He wore the obligatory bill-cap, khaki trousers, and a khaki shirt rolled up to the elbows. As he stooped to inspect the damage, Amy admired the tattoos on his forearms. She was still staring as Hank Gibbs drove up behind the truck and climbed out of his car, leaving the engine running.
“Hi, Smitty,” he said. And to Amy, “What’s going on here?”
She told him quickly, and halfway through the telling he frowned. By the time she finished her account the furrows on his forehead seemed permanently fixed.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “You’re going to give this town a bum rap when you leave here.”
“Looks as if somebody here doesn’t want me to leave,” Amy said. “I’ve got to get out to the memorial service.”
“That’s where I’m headed for,” Gibbs said. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
“But what about my car?”
Gibbs walked over to the man from the service station. “Think you can help the lady, Smitty?”
The bill-cap bobbed in nodding response. “No problem. Whitewalls, I’m positive. Radials I can get from Kleemann.”
Gibbs glanced at Amy and she shook her head. “Never mind the radials,” he said. “Just see if you can get the job done this afternoon. The lady’s staying here at the hotel. Any idea what this is going to cost?”
Smitty ran a tattooed nude across his sweaty hairline. “Got to see how this size runs when I get back to the shop. Then there’s the labor—”
Hank Gibbs smiled, “just remember, you owe me.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll hold it down.”
“You want me to sign anything?” Amy asked.
Smitty shook his head. “I can’t make out an order until I check the price list. No point you waiting until I get back here. I’ll get your name and address from the register when I leave the bill at the desk.”
“Thank you,” Amy said.
She repeated the words to Gibbs as they drove away. He nodded but she noted his forehead was still furrowed.
“Anything wrong?” she said.
“You park your car in plain view on an open lot facing Main Street, then somebody comes along and slashes all four of your tires. Sounds wrong to me.” The car curved onto a country trunk road at the far end of town. “What did Engstrom have to say?”
“I haven’t reported it.”
“Why not? Don’t you have any ideas about what could have happened?”
“Ideas, yes. I think somebody may have asked the desk clerk at the hotel about what I was driving.”
“You’re talking about young Chambers.”
Amy nodded. “I have a strong impression he doesn’t like me, but that doesn’t prove anything. And if I make a fuss it’s only going to stir up more hard feelings.”
Gibbs shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I’m just sorry you had to run into all this trouble.”
“It’s not your fault. Nobody asked me to come.” Amy’s jawline tightened as she spoke. “But now that I’m here nobody’s going to scare me away.”
Which was the truth, Amy told herself. This was no time to back off. If anything, what had happened to the car strengthened her determination. Added to it now was a new element—suspicion. Given the circumstances she could understand why someone might tell her to get out of town, but slashing those tires was more than a suggestion; it was a threat. A threat from someone out there who was capable of slashing more than tires—
Amy found herself forcing a smile to hide the thought behind it. But hidden or not, the thought remained. And once again the feeling of depression surfaced as Gibbs headed the car into the parking area on the far side of the church at the crossroads. The sight of the white spire looming against the lowering sky evoked memories of Amy’s high school art classes years ago. The church was pure Grant Wood; the clouds were something out of Hieronymus Bosch.
