Witch, page 18
For a dazed moment Ellen thought the bolt had struck the house. She got to her feet and went groping for the light switch. She had lost her sense of direction. The room seemed to be filled with people, moving, fumbling as she was. Wind rushed through the open windows, sending papers flying and bringing the first sharp sting of rain. From the nether depths came a ghastly, inhuman howling. Ellen ran into someone, who recoiled with a yell. Then her outstretched hand encountered a door frame. A moment later she found the switch, and light came.
Her hand holding the knob as if it were an amulet, Ellen surveyed the rest of the party. They looked like the victims of a shipwreck or earthquake—dazed, blinking, pale.
Norman was the first to recover.
“Good Lord,” he said, passing his hand over his eyes. “I’ve read about panic, but I never thought…. You were right, Ellen, that was a stupid thing to do.”
“That howling,” whispered Betty, hands clasped over her heart. “Something came…something horrible…listen to it….”
“Ishtar doesn’t like thunder,” said Penny. She was still seated at the table.
“Oh,” Betty said flatly. “The cat.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to ignore Ishtar,” Ellen said. “It’s starting to rain hard, and my curtains are going to fly out into the night any minute.”
The activity of closing windows and mopping up puddles restored everyone to normal. Bob was assiduous in helping, but he didn’t fool Ellen; she had seen him and his son halfway out the door to the kitchen when the lights came on. Rats deserting the sinking ship, she thought disgustedly, and then smiled and offered brandy all around.
“Good idea,” Bob said enthusiastically. He went to the bar.
“That was fascinating,” said Betty. “I’m sure I felt an entity.” She looked defiantly at the door. Ishtar’s yowls had subsided, but an occasional roar still echoed, to inform them that she was not to be tortured without putting up a fight. “Something besides that damned cat.”
“Pure suggestion,” said Norman; but he sounded less confident than usual.
“I wrote something,” said Morrie, with his inevitable giggle. “I mean, like, my hand did.”
“I’ll bet it did,” Ellen said. She caught Penny’s eye and smiled reluctantly.
“We forgot the papers,” Betty said. “My goodness, they’re all over the floor. That wind was terrible. Let’s see what we got.”
She collected the papers. Bob had abandoned spiritualism for spirits and hovered near the bar, but the others gathered around the table.
“Someone was doodling,” Betty announced, holding up the first sheet of paper. Incredulously, Ellen recognized the agitated stick figures and formalized trees she produced when she was talking on the telephone. She had not the slightest recollection of having moved her pencil.
After one glance at the next sheet, Betty flushed angrily and crumpled it in her hand.
“Morrie, that is not funny!”
“Let’s see,” Norman said.
“Not on your life. Morrie, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times—”
“But, Mother, I don’t know what I wrote,” Morrie said innocently. “It was automatic writing.”
The next sheet had a drawing. The outlines were rough, which was understandable for a sketch done in the dark, but it was identifiable as a naked female figure.
“Done by the ghost of a dirty old man?” Ellen suggested drily.
All eyes turned toward Bob, who came ambling over, glass in hand, to see what they were looking at. He glanced at the drawing.
“What is it?” he asked. “Looks like pop art.”
His voice sounded genuinely puzzled.
“This is a funny one,” Betty said. “Look at this.”
She put the paper down on the table so they could all see it.
The entire sheet was covered with sprawled, looping letters. The writing was fiercely black; the pencil had pressed so hard it had torn the paper in two places.
“He will do it tonight,” it read. “Watch out, he will do it now. Quick, quick. He will do it tonight. He will—”
Ellen had always suspected that Bob was one of those people who can’t read unless they move their lips. He read the message aloud.
“‘He will do it tonight.’ You’re right, Ellie, it is the ghost of a dirty old man.”
Morrie echoed his guffaw, but no one else laughed. Suddenly, without a word, Norman turned and ran from the room. Ellen had a glimpse of his face; it was taut and pale. She heard the front door open and close before she could recover from her surprise. Then she ran after him.
“Norman—”
He was gone. The taillights of the car flared and then disappeared as he drove, too fast, down the driveway and out of sight.
“He tore out into the rain without his hat or coat,” said Betty, behind her. “What was it, Ellen? The message was meant for him, but what did it mean?”
“Nothing. It meant nothing. Betty, if you ever suggest another séance—”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Betty said. She added, with a malicious glance at Ellen, “It might not mean anything to you, dear, but if it sends a man rushing out into a storm….”
The Randolphs were disinclined to tackle a three-hour drive in a raging thunderstorm. Ellen didn’t blame them, but she offered hospitality for the night with grudging reluctance. All she wanted was to get them out of the house so she could collapse in peace.
However, it was distracting to bustle about, changing sheets and making up the cot in the study for Morrie. Penny insisted that her mother take her bed, but Ellen refused; the living-room couch would be good enough for her. She rather doubted that she would sleep.
She did not know what the bizarre message meant, if it meant anything; but she knew what Norman thought it meant, and once again she had a glimpse into his private hell that made her ache with sympathy. She only hoped he didn’t kill himself, driving like a maniac on slippery roads, to find Tim. There was no cause for alarm, of course. Tim wouldn’t pick a night like this for any of his unpleasant tricks. Norman would find him in bed asleep and would realize that his alarm had been causeless. All the same, Ellen had to fight down a desire to telephone.
The rest of the evening was a series of petty, prickly annoyances. Betty wouldn’t go to bed; she insisted on having a cup of tea and rehashing the séance. When Ellen let Ishtar out of the cellar, the cat bit her. At some point in the proceedings, Penny disappeared. Ellen didn’t realize she was missing at first; she was merely annoyed because Penny was not on hand to help her find clean towels and sheets. When she realized Penny wasn’t watching television with Morrie, she flew into a panic. She was on the verge of silent hysterics when she heard a door close. Going to the kitchen, she found Penny trying to get out of her wet clothes before anyone saw her.
“Where have you been? You’re soaked!”
“Just for a walk.” The wind had whipped color into the girl’s cheeks, and her eyes glittered. With her long hair plastered to her head by rain, she looked like a drowned witch. “I love being out in storms.”
“Didn’t you know I would worry? Of all the thoughtless, inconsiderate…. The dogs might be out!”
“They are out,” said Penny, in the oddest voice. “I heard them. Mom, stop getting uptight. I can’t stand that awful Morrie; I had to get away from him. What are you so worried about?”
Before Ellen could answer, Penny had walked out of the room, leaving a drenched raincoat in a puddle on the floor. Ellen picked it up and stood there holding it. The steady drip of water echoed in her head like the Chinese water torture.
Chapter 11
ELLEN WAS AWAKENED BY THE SOUND OF MORRIE’S snores. Squinting apprehensively at the new day, she saw that the sun was shining, but she was not much cheered by the sight. She stumbled into the kitchen and put the coffee on, hoping she could get a cupful into her interior before she had to be civil to anyone.
When the telephone shrilled she made a dive for it. For the first time in her life she was disappointed to hear Jack’s voice. She had hoped it was Norman, full of apologies for his ridiculous behavior the night before.
Jack had a habit of getting the bad news over with right away.
“I can’t make it today, Ellen. Another stupid meeting this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong? You sound terrible.”
Ellen forced brightness into her voice.
“I guess I’m sleepy. The Randolphs spent the night—we had a storm—and I didn’t get to bed till late.”
“What fun,” said Jack, who didn’t like the Randolphs. “We had a lot of rain too. Is everything all right out there?”
“Oh, yes.” Ellen glanced out the kitchen window. “The back yard is sloppy, but the sun is shining; it will dry things off fast. I do wish you were coming….”
“Me, too. What about you and Penny coming in tomorrow?”
Ellen could hear voices in the background. Even on Sunday morning he wasn’t free.
“Jack, you’re too busy. I know you are.”
He spoke to someone, his hand over the mouthpiece, and then addressed her again.
“Look, I’ll call you tonight. See what we can arrange.”
The telephone had awakened the others. They came yawning downstairs, and Ellen didn’t get her pre-breakfast coffee after all. It was noon before the Randolphs left, and she turned, with aching head and drooping eyes, to cope with a stack of egg-stained dishes. Penny had disappeared again. Ordinarily Ellen wouldn’t have been surprised; Penny was a normal adolescent, with the tendency of the breed to dematerialize when there was work to be done. In her present mood, Ellen found the girl’s absence sinister. There was nothing she could do, except yield to her mounting concern and telephone Norman. She got the housekeeper, who told her Norman was out. Martha was never loquacious; this time she was barely civil. She hung up before Ellen could ask any more questions.
Her head was aching so badly that she took a couple of aspirin and lay down in her darkened room. She did not expect to sleep, but she fell at once into heavy slumber, and dreamed.
It was the old dream of running desperately through a dark wood toward something she wanted with all her heart and soul to prevent. But this time the feeling of danger was intensified. Danger was all around; it dripped from the trees like blood. She awoke with a cry and a pounding heart—and then realized that the pounding came, as well, from outside. Someone was hammering on the front door.
She knew who it was before she opened the door; Ishtar was crouched on the mat, staring fixedly at the wooden panel. Penny came out of the kitchen as Ellen descended the stairs.
“Take Ishtar,” Ellen said shortly. “It must be Norman; she only acts that way with him.”
Penny scooped up the cat and Ellen opened the door. It was Norman; but it was a Norman she scarcely recognized. He was wearing the clothes he had worn the night before; they were stiff with mud, torn and stained. He had not shaved. He looked past Ellen at Penny, who held the struggling cat, and he spoke as Ellen had never heard him speak.
“Get rid of that damned cat!”
Without a word, Penny turned and carried Ishtar to the cellar.
“I’m sorry,” Norman said to Ellen. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry…. I can’t think. Please, Ellen—has Tim been here?”
“No, of course not. Come in. What on earth has happened?”
But she knew, even before she asked—she had known all along. The only thing she didn’t know was the precise nature of the act.
“I’ve been out all night looking. I’ve looked everywhere, trying to find him…before they do.”
“Who? What has happened?”
She had to pull at his sleeve to get him inside the house; and then she went straight to the bar for brandy before questioning him further. The brandy helped; he drew a long breath before tossing it down, and rubbed his eyes again.
“I keep forgetting you don’t know. You remember last night? My God, it seems a hundred years ago.”
“I remember that so-called spirit message, and you rushing out of the house. I knew what you were thinking…. Norman, don’t tell me it really happened. What did Tim do last night?”
She was aware of Penny standing straight and silent behind her. Penny would be worried too. How worried? How much did she care for the boy? What had she been doing out in the rain last night? All these thoughts, and others, flashed through her mind in a dark kaleidoscope of shapes before Norman finally answered.
“He attacked one of the girls. Beat her badly and would have raped her, maybe killed her, if she hadn’t fought him off.”
He hid his face in his hands. Ellen sat frozen, staring at the tumbled silver-gilt hair that fell over his fingers. Then Penny spoke.
“Which girl?”
“I don’t know. What is her name? Prudence.”
“Prudence?” Ellen repeated. “The same one who—”
“Yes.” Norman dropped his hands and looked up. His eyes were like pale-blue pebbles, expressionless and dull. “I know what you’re thinking, Ellen. But the girl didn’t inflict those bruises and cuts on herself. I saw them.”
“Has she been examined by a doctor?” It was Penny who spoke; her voice was so dry and hard it might have been that of an old woman.
“You don’t know this town,” Norman said. “Bring in a doctor, to hear of a young girl’s shame?”
“There are tests,” Penny said. “Tests for attempted rape. How far did he get with her? If he—”
“Penny!” Ellen didn’t know why she was shocked; she had always prided herself on discussing such things frankly with Penny and the boys. Perhaps it was the girl’s tone—or perhaps it was Norman’s expression as he stared at Penny.
“That is beside the point,” he said slowly. “If it were any other boy in town, they might give him the benefit of a doubt. But Tim is condemned before he opens his mouth. I tell you, they are out looking for him! I’ve got to find him before they do!”
How long had she lived here, Ellen wondered? Six weeks? Long enough to accept the terrible truth Norman was hinting at. Six weeks ago she wouldn’t have believed it could happen anywhere in a civilized nation. She had been incredibly naive. Mrs. Grapow and the minister…the sick, perverse religion that ruled the town…old customs, old habits, old ways of doing things. And Prudence’s father—
“…his shotgun,” Norman said. “You know Muller, Ellen. He says he’ll kill the boy on sight. He’s drunker than usual. He might do it.”
“I know him,” Ellen said. “Oh, God, and I gave him back that shotgun…. No, I won’t explain now, it doesn’t matter. He could always find a gun somewhere….”
“Help me find Tim.” Norman spread his hands in a pleading gesture. “I’ve got to get him out of town. Where is he?”
“Norman, I don’t know. We haven’t seen him.”
Norman wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Penny.
Ellen turned.
Penny was wearing shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Her long bare legs were deeply tanned. Her black hair rippled over her shoulders. She looked delightful.
Her wide, candid eyes moved from one adult face to the other.
“No, we haven’t seen him,” she said sweetly. “I should think he’d be miles away by this time. He’s got money, hasn’t he?”
“He hasn’t any money,” Norman said. “I haven’t dared let him have cash.”
“You don’t know what he’s got,” Penny said. “He’s such a bum, isn’t he…. Probably he’s a thief as well as a vandal and would-be rapist. And you have all those expensive little trinkets just sitting around the house. He could hitchhike to Washington or Richmond and find a pawnshop. If I were you, I’d check my inventory.”
Norman’s eyes fell. He seemed to be studying his hands, which were tightly clasped on his knees. They were no longer well tended; scratches crisscrossed them and the long fingers bore the colors of the woods—berry stains, and brown smears of sap. Ellen visualized him pushing heedlessly through the tangled woods, in rain and darkness, calling Tim’s name. The picture was so like the theme and the landscape of her nightmare that she shivered with sympathy.
“If he does come here, we’ll let you know right away,” she said gently. “Penny may be right, you know. Go home and check the house. If I were you, I’d call the police. Just report him missing.”
“I can’t do that yet,” Norman said. “A boy that age—they wouldn’t take me seriously unless he were missing for more than one night.”
“Tomorrow, then, if he doesn’t come home tonight. I’m sure you are worrying unnecessarily, Norman. Muller is a sot, but he isn’t really dangerous; give him ten dollars and he’ll drink himself into a stupor. The more I think about it, the more I’m inclined to think Penny is right. If Tim started hitchhiking—”
She broke off as Penny darted to the window. Then she heard the sound the girl’s keen ears had heard first. It was the sound of a car coming up the driveway.
She joined Penny at the window. The car was one she had not seen before, a battered old Ford that wheezed and stuttered. The driver got out—Mr. Winckler, the minister. He was followed by Mrs. Grapow, and two men. One of them Ellen knew by sight, though not by name. The other was Muller.
“Don’t let them in,” Penny gasped.
“I have no intention of doing so.”
When she ran out onto the porch, no one was in sight. Evidently the delegation had halted on the path; she could hear a mutter of voices, as if a conference were in progress.
For a moment the whole scene shimmered like a faulty film. It was impossible that she could be experiencing this on her own front porch with its walls of flowering green and its comfortable modern furniture. The yard was sunny and quiet. The sun was far down the western sky; she had slept longer than she realized.
Ellen rubbed her eyes. Surely she was still asleep and dreaming. Maybe she had dreamed the whole summer. Mrs. Grapow was a product of her subconscious, the church and its pastor a fragment of some suppressed childhood terror….
