Witch, page 17
Yet when she faced her real, waking worries, they seemed trivial. What was she concerned about? The antagonism of the townspeople was vexing and mildly inconvenient, but no more. People didn’t burn witches in this day and age. As for Penny and Tim, that was even more ridiculous. She had no solid evidence that they had any kind of—what was the word the kids used?—relationship. And if they did, what of it? Tim wasn’t the friend she would have chosen for her daughter, but Penny was sound. She had probably dated boys who had equally serious problems. God knows there were plenty of them these days.
So Ellen walked through the days waiting for something she couldn’t define. The weekend began to look like an island of refuge. Friends from the real, sane world outside—and the hope of a visit from Jack.
On Friday she awoke late—a frequent occurrence, now that she was sleeping so badly—to find that Penny had gone out. The weather was cooler and slightly overcast; it felt refreshing after the muggy heat of the preceding week. Ellen decided to take a walk. She wasn’t looking for Penny; it was simply that she hadn’t been in the woods for some time.
As she crossed the lawn she heard a gun go off somewhere in the woods. It was not the first time she had heard gunfire on her land, though Ed Salling had assured her the legal hunting season was still some months away. She had posted signs, but she knew this was an inadequate measure, as were her unsuccessful attempts to catch the hunter in the act. The local people knew the terrain better than she did and could easily evade her.
Her failures didn’t keep her from continuing to try, though. Aside from her concern for the animals, it was annoying to have people shooting off guns while she and Penny and Ishtar were within range.
As she stood looking at the trees, she heard another shot. Ellen started to run. She was angry and spoiling for a fight, though she didn’t expect to obtain that pleasure. When the third shot rang out, she ducked involuntarily; it sounded as if it had gone off right beside her. She ran on, making no attempt to move noiselessly; in fact, she began to shout. She didn’t want to be mistaken for a game animal.
She saw the man among the trees before he saw her. His carelessness told her of his probable state even before he turned a red, sweating face in her direction. Yes, he was drunk. She was not surprised, for she had recognized the gross, fat body and filthy hunting jacket he habitually wore. It was Muller, the father of Prudence and Bob and the husband of the gray-faced woman she had met at the store. Ellen had seen him in town, identifying him by his state of inebriation and his resemblance to his son; and she had understood why Mrs. Muller’s eyes had that look.
He stood staring stupidly at her, the shotgun wobbling in his hand. He’s too drunk to hit anything, Ellen thought disgustedly; thank God for that. She advanced toward him, pushing branches and vines away as she moved. Muller turned. The muzzle of the gun pointed straight at Ellen.
Ellen knew something about guns. Jack refused to have one in the house, but the summer before he had taken them all to a rifle range and taught them how to load and fire several types of weapons. Even so, her act was foolhardy. She would never have done it if she hadn’t been so angry. Muller’s drunkenness was the last straw. Sober poachers were bad enough, but this sodden idiot was a real menace.
She reached out and grabbed the gun. Muller’s reflexes were in poor shape; by the time he reacted, Ellen was several yards away, with the shotgun firmly in her grasp.
“Stand still,” she said sharply. “I’m not used to this thing. It could go off.”
Muller licked his lips. He was a revolting spectacle with his greasy, unshaven face and his fat belly wobbling above his belt.
“Whassa matter?” he demanded. “Tha’s mine. Gimme it back.”
“This land is mine. You are trespassing. I could have you arrested.”
“Now you look here,” Muller began.
Ellen shifted the gun to her shoulder. She had no intention of firing it; she had never handled a shotgun, and she suspected that the recoil would knock her off her feet. But Muller was too drunk and too stupid to figure that out. According to local gossip, he had one other interest besides cruelty, and as he studied Ellen’s face she saw his expression alter.
“Nice pretty lady like you shouldn’t shoot people,” he mumbled. “Le’s be friends, huh? Have a li’l drink together, talk nice….”
He staggered toward her, his face made even uglier by what he clearly believed to be a seductive smile. One hand fumbled in his pocket. Ellen had seen the bulge and was not surprised to have her suspicion confirmed. He carried his bottle with him.
“Take one more step and I’ll shoot,” she said clearly. There was no point in being subtle with this clod; she added, slowly and distinctly, “You smell. You make me sick. If I ever catch you on my property again, I’ll have you locked up. You won’t be able to get liquor in jail.”
Muller began to whine, pleading for mercy and mentioning his six starving children. Ellen ignored him. He was only dangerous when he held a weapon.
Dubiously she studied the gun. She didn’t want to take it home with her; Muller might be inspired to come looking for it, since it was obviously dear to him. A sex symbol, no doubt. He was probably impotent without his gun. Nor was she willing to hand it back loaded. After some fumbling she located the breech and removed the shells. She put them in her pocket and threw the empty gun into the underbrush, noting, with satisfaction, that it landed in a clump of poison ivy. Muller howled as if she had struck him.
“Now get out,” Ellen said. “If you’re off my property in ten minutes, I won’t call the police; but if I hear another shot around here, I’ll have you arrested.”
Muller was pawing around in the poison ivy when she left.
After some thought Ellen decided to call the police after all. She did not mention Muller’s name, feeling there was no point in rousing his hostility, but the state trooper knew Chew’s Corners well.
“Probably Muller,” he said casually. “Don’t worry, ma’am, he’s not dangerous. This isn’t the first complaint we’ve had. He doesn’t go back to places after he’s been warned off. Too big a coward. I’ll read him a lecture next time I see him.”
“I wouldn’t want him to think—”
“Well, sure. I won’t say you called. Though there’s nothing to worry about with Muller. Like I said, he’s too chicken to hurt anybody.”
Ellen sincerely hoped he was right.
Most days are mixtures of good and bad, but sometimes there are Jonah days, when trivial irritations pile up until they weigh more heavily than a catastrophe. Friday was such a day for Ellen. Penny didn’t come back until afternoon, which would have rated a lecture in any case; her encounter with Muller then gave Ellen another cause for worry, so that by the time Penny arrived, her nerves were stretched to the breaking point. She shouted at Penny; and Penny, too well trained to shout back, stormed off to her room and spent the rest of the day there.
Jack called that evening to say he couldn’t make it for the weekend. He hoped to get down to see them for a few hours on Sunday, but Ellen knew by his tone that the hope was a faint one. He sounded depressed, and only Ellen’s disinclination to worry him kept her from crying into and onto the telephone. Without Jack, and in her present mood, the visitors were going to be an unmitigated bore. She tried to console herself with the thought that they were only coming for the day, not for the whole weekend, but it was small comfort. Impulsively she reached for the phone and called Norman. He was at home, and accepted her invitation for dinner with seeming pleasure, although Ellen warned him that the other guests were not brilliant conversationalists.
The day ended with a repetition of the same dream that had begun her cycle of nightmares. If anything, the atmosphere of this dream was more agonizing than the first had been; the woods were darker, the howling louder, the anguished dread more intense. And when she awoke, sweating with terror, the house rang with the same echo of mocking laughter. It was too much for Ellen. She pulled the sheet over her head and cowered in bed until the laughter died.
III
She awoke the next morning with a dull headache and a sour taste in her mouth. Penny was repentant and full of zeal; with her help Ellen got the cleaning and cooking done, so that she was able to receive her guests with relative goodwill.
By evening the headache was back. The Randolphs were not only boring, they were a pain in the neck. Betty was the daughter of Ellen’s mother’s oldest friend. She had ignored Ellen when the latter was a struggling young divorcee, but when Ellen moved in with Jack and the boys, Betty had suddenly become very friendly. Her husband worked for the State Department, which explained some of Betty’s fondness for Ellen; but Jack consistently ignored Betty’s hints. He told Ellen that Bob was an incompetent jerk, whom he wouldn’t recommend for dog catcher. Their son was a chip off the old block, and Ellen privately agreed with Penny’s abhorrence of the boy. Like his parents, Morrie was overweight and puffy from lack of exercise. He had fat, clumsy hands, and a paucity of conversational resources that was outstanding, even in his generally inarticulate peer group.
The Randolphs’ idea of exercise consisted of a gentle stroll around the yard. They refused to enter the woods. All they wanted to do was sit on the porch drinking gin and tonic and discussing the latest disasters among their circle of acquaintances—alcoholism, divorce, delinquent offspring, and financial distress.
When Norman arrived, Ellen greeted him with more than her usual enthusiasm, and Norman responded gallantly. Betty’s eyes narrowed as she considered Norman’s clothes, his car, and his good looks; Ellen knew Betty would be on the telephone all the next day reporting Ellen’s latest conquest, but she didn’t care. She didn’t even mind Norman’s proprietorial air. It was natural for him to take on some of the functions of a host, opening wine bottles and preparing drinks. His ease of manner and conversation turned the evening into a qualified success, and she appreciated him all the more because her family had failed her. Jack had not come, and Penny sat like a lump in the corner, watching the adults as if they were monkeys in a zoo. She refused to entertain Morrie, but she helped serve the meal, which was praised by all parties.
Ellen could never remember how the conversation turned to the supernatural. Betty had been interested in the occult, before she took up Yoga and acupuncture; she could still talk learnedly of cusps and astrological houses, of discarnates and ectoplasm. Her husband scoffed at her hobbies, but Ellen sometimes wondered if he wasn’t even more gullible than his wife. She had once seen Bob sneaking out of a palmist’s establishment in Bethesda.
When she first saw the house, Betty had immediately pronounced it “just the place for a ghost.” After dinner she brought the subject up again. Or was it Betty? Ellen wasn’t following the conversation. She was counting the hours until her guests could be expected to depart, and thinking wearily of the stack of dirty dishes in the kitchen. Betty never offered to help with the cleaning up.
Then a name penetrated her absorption. Norman was telling the Randolphs about Mary Baumgartner.
Ellen studied the faces of the others: Norman’s deceptively youthful features, moving animatedly as he gave the story the full treatment; Betty’s wide-eyed stare; Bob’s gaping interest—for he had forgotten his pretended skepticism, and looked like a medieval peasant listening to the miracles of the saints. Penny’s face was a blank. She made no comment, and when someone suggested a séance, Ellen’s was the only dissenting voice.
The Randolphs overruled her. Ellen gave in with a shrug, but as the laughing group trooped into the dining room, Ellen felt a premonitory quiver of uneasiness.
The dining room was one of her least favorite rooms. It was rather dark even in daylight, with its low-beamed ceiling and small windows. The windows were now wide open; it was still hot, although night had fallen.
They took their places around the oval table. Norman dimmed the lights. The boys had installed a dimmer when they added their finishing touches to the house. Ellen seldom used it; she didn’t like the sickly half-light. “If I want atmosphere, I’ll use candles,” she was wont to say. But the light was effective for the present purpose. Its fading seemed to lower a barrier against the dark, which seeped foglike through the open windows.
“Wait a minute,” Betty said. “We haven’t decided on a procedure. What are we going to do, just sit around in a circle holding hands?”
“That’s okay with me,” said Morrie, leering.
“Now, Morrie,” said his mother absently.
“I’m not the expert,” Norman said. “I thought that’s what people did at séances.”
“Only if there is a strong trance medium present,” Betty explained. “I don’t suppose you…”
“Good heavens, no,” Norman said.
“Then we need something like an Ouija board.”
“There’s no such thing in the house,” Ellen said.
“No home should be without one,” said Bob.
“Now, Bob. I don’t suppose you have any alphabet cards either, Ellen.”
“No.”
“We could make some.”
“It would take too long,” Bob objected. He was as fascinated as his wife.
“I read about something once.” Norman’s voice had the polite detachment of a host trying to accommodate an unreasonable request from a guest. “You fasten two slates together so they can’t be tampered with, and call on the spirits. Sometimes they will write a message on the inner surface.”
“I don’t imagine Ellen has any slates, either,” said Betty critically. “Too bad, because the writing…writing, of course! How about automatic writing?”
“What’s that?” Norman asked.
“You must clear your mind and relax,” Betty explained. “Hold a pencil loosely in your right hand. If contact is made, the communicating spirit will use your hand to write a message.”
“I don’t think I like that,” Norman said. “I am not keen on letting anybody, or anything, use my body.”
“Amen,” said Ellen heartily.
As she should have known, opposition only made Betty more stubborn.
“It’s a marvelous idea. We must all try it. Ellen, paper and pencils—”
A rumble of thunder interrupted her. Ellen’s skin prickled.
“I ought to close the windows,” she muttered.
“Not yet; it’s too hot. Haven’t you got any paper?”
“I’ll get it,” Penny said.
“There’s some stationery in the hall desk,” Ellen said resignedly.
The pencils took longer to find; it is surprising how few households can produce half a dozen functional pencils. But Betty insisted that ballpoint pens were inappropriate; the hand had to be relaxed and the pressure light.
Finally they were all equipped, and Norman went back to the light switch. He was smiling, and Ellen silently blessed him for his skepticism.
“Is this dark enough?” he asked, turning the switch. “I understand the spirits don’t like much light.”
“Turn it all the way off,” Betty said. “It is easier to make contact in the dark. Anyhow,” she added, with a belated flash of caution, “it minimizes the possibility of fraud if we can’t see what we’re doing.”
“No,” Ellen said, as Norman’s hand moved the switch. But her voice was too low; it was drowned in the general exclamations, as the dark rushed in and covered them.
It was odd how the absence of light altered people and places. The room felt smaller. It even smelled differently to Ellen; under the lingering odors of good food and fresh furniture polish, she caught a whiff of something old and dank, like wet brick. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the others as featureless silhouettes, but there was nothing remotely familiar about any of the shapes. She gasped as a sulfurous glow of light momentarily illumined the faces; in that ominous glimmer they looked alien and diabolical. The light faded and was followed by thunder.
“Perfect atmosphere,” said Norman’s voice coolly. “Ellen, I’ll bet you conjured up a storm for us.”
Ellen didn’t answer. There was a hoarse chuckle that could only have come from Morrie. He had sulked when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to get a chance to hold Penny’s hand. He seemed in a better humor now. Maybe he was planning a joke—some stupid comment, purporting to come from the ghost of a distinguished dead man.
His mother knew him as well as Ellen did.
“No more talk,” she said sharply. “And no jokes, Morrie. Relax and clear your minds. Relax….”
Ellen had never felt less relaxed. She wanted to stand up and pound on the table and shout insults at the fools who had instigated this insanity. She didn’t want to relax. She was afraid to. She was afraid of what her own hand might write.
As the silence lengthened, and small rustles and breaths of movement were magnified by the loss of sight, she sat wondering at herself. Had her beautiful, beloved house actually reduced her to this fearful belief in something that violated every tenet of ethics, religion, and common sense?
Someone was writing. She could hear the scraping of the pencil. Lightning flashed again, so much closer that it dazzled instead of allowing vision. She could not see who was writing. Automatically she counted seconds, and started convulsively when the thunder rumbled before she had barely begun. Her hand was tingling. She clutched the pencil. If relaxation would produce the phenomenon called automatic writing, then she would keep every muscle taut. The pencil felt as thick as a walking stick.
The room was alive with soft movement—rustling, scraping, scuttling sounds. The curtains billowed out in a gust of wind. Lightning again—closer, brighter—thunder that crackled instead of rumbling.
“That’s enough,” Ellen said suddenly. “Stop….”
“No, wait. I’m getting something.” It was Betty’s voice, shrill with excitement.
“Please, Mom. Just a minute.” That voice was Penny’s. Ellen didn’t like the sound of it. She was about to rise when lightning and thunder came together in a monumental explosion.
