Magic Cottage, Das Haus auf dem Land

by James Herbert

  "Surely the authorities would have stepped in if it's as bad as you say." Midge's eyes were sharp with concern.

  "Since there were no minors involved, and no laws have ever been broken, they deemed they were in no position even to investigate. Odd cults and religions are hardly rare these days, after all. The Synergists aren't even registered as a charity, so even their financial status cannot be questioned as long as their records are carefully maintained and presented."

  "Isn't there some law against secret societies?" I asked.

  "The Synergist Temple is hardly that. They keep very much to themselves, but I wouldn't describe them as a secret society."

  "Have you ever met this man Mycroft?" Midge watched the vicar over the top of her glass while she drank.

  "No, never, even though I've called at the house more than once. I suppose I should refer to the place as their temple, but it's awfully difficult for me to regard it as such. No, our Mr. Mycroft always appears to be either indisposed or away on business at the time of my visits. As a matter of fact, I don't believe anyone hereabouts has ever set eyes on the man."

  "You haven't explained why they should be interested in Flora Chaldean," I said. "She was a bit ancient to become one of their Fosterlings, wasn't she?"

  Sixsmythe raised his eyebrows. "You know how they refer to their followers?"

  "One of the three who've been visiting us regularly dropped by yesterday evening to thank me for helping out the girls in the village. He told us something about the Synergists."

  "I see."

  I grinned. "Don't worry, he wasn't trying to convert us. We were interested, so we asked. And he gave us answers."

  Sixsmythe was quiet for a moment or two. Then he said, "I firmly believe that you both should take the utmost caution where these people are concerned. Yes, I'm well aware that they appear to be extremely affable, even rather innocent, yet I can't help but feel there's something more to them than they would care to admit."

  "That sounds very sinister."

  "Perhaps so."

  "Oh come on, you'll have to give us something more than that," Midge scoffed mildly.

  "I'm afraid I can't. Call it a gut feeling, one that's shared by many of my parishioners. If it was anything more, any evident acts of misconduct on the Synergists' part, then our local council might have been able to exercise its authority and have done something about their presence in the district. As it is, they keep to themselves and, so far, haven't committed any public offense."

  "Then why all the fuss?" Midge was quite irritated by now. "Just because they don't conform to the natural pattern of life around here, it's no reason to shun them."

  "Dear girl, if only it were that simple. As I said, call it gut feeling, intuition—whatever you like—but the locals are wary of them and, as a man of God, so am I. There's an air of secrecy about them that we find extremely disturbing."

  Midge giggled and Sixsmythe frowned.

  "I didn't intend to amuse you," he said, somewhat crossly I thought. "We may lead rather sheltered lives in this part of the country, but I can assure you we are not all superstitious country bumpkins. I've proffered my advice, and there's little more that I can do." He reached for his hat and made ready to leave. "In my view, this Synergist sect is not to be trusted; however, I leave you to make up your own mind about that."

  I was taken aback by his touchiness. "Hey, look, we're not mocking you and we really do appreciate your coming out all this way to tell us about them. We hardly know these people, but they seem neighborly enough, so it's difficult for us to blindly accept what you're saying. You've gotta own up, you haven't offered any firm evidence."

  His miffed expression softened, but he stood anyway. "Yes, I do understand how it must look to you," he said. "I imagine I sound extremely foolish, yet all I ask is that you take heed of my words. And if you should have any concerns whatsoever—anything at all—promise me you'll phone me at the vicarage. Can we agree at least on that?'

  "Sure," I replied, rising with him.

  Midge was less obliging, and I could see why: the first arrow had been fired at her Shangri-La; she didn't really want to know about bad neighbors, especially when she had already taken a shine to them. Nevertheless, she politely got to her feet and we accompanied the vicar back to his bicycle. Sixsmythe was well aware of her mood and probably felt a tiny bit contrite, because he did his best to direct the conversation onto other, more pleasant matters—Gramarye's beautiful situation, the wonderful garden, the loveliness of the forest itself (even lovelier, according to him, in the autumn months when the trees held a vast canopy of countless shades of russet golds), and whether or not he could welcome us to next Sunday's services at the church (I knew that would come up). Synergists didn't get a mention.

  I opened the gate for him and he went through, slid clips around his trouser ankles, then pulled his bicycle upright from the fence where it had reclined as if exhausted by the journey.

  "Mr. Sixsmythe?" said Midge as he swung a leg over the machine.

  He twisted around to look inquiringly at her.

  "Can you tell me something?"

  "Of course, providing I know the answer."

  "Well, we . . . I . . . I wondered how Flora Chaldean died."

  He became momentarily flustered. "Oh, dear girl, I hope I haven't given you cause for too much concern by overstating my case. Please forgive me if I've alarmed you to that extent."

  "No, honestly, you haven't. I've been wondering for a while now."

  "Flora was a very old lady, Margaret. Nobody is quite sure of exactly how many years she had lived, but it's reasonable to assume she had reached her eighties—possibly her late eighties." He smiled kindly at Midge. "I suppose you could say Flora died of old age itself. Her heart grew weary and she passed away in her beloved Gramarye. Unfortunately, because she was a recluse, nobody knew until weeks later, although there were those who claimed they had passed by the cottage and had caught sight of her in the garden only a few days before her body was found. But then, people are often confused about specific times, particular dates; it's very difficult to be absolutely certain about such things."

  "Why should there be any confusion?" asked Midge.

  "Ah," the vicar replied, as though her question were pertinent. "It so happened that I was the one who discovered her body. I used to call in now and again to see how she was, just part of what I consider to be my regular duties, even though I can't remember Flora ever attending my church. I make a point of always visiting the elderly of the parish when I have time, particularly during the winter months."

  He adjusted the trilby, pulling the hat firmly down over his head so that the breeze would not sweep it away when he started cycling. The brim bent the top of/his ears. "I saw her through the kitchen window, sitting at the table, cup and saucer before her as though she had only just brewed herself a fresh pot of tea. It was an overcast day and the kitchen was very gloomy, so that I was unable to see clearly; I remember thinking how grimy the windows were, because that hindered my view also. When I tapped on the glass and got no response, well, that was when I became anxious. I'd already tried the door and found it locked, which was odd, because I had never known Flora to lock either doors or windows before. Most peculiar, I thought, and immediately drove to the nearest public phone booth and called out Constable Fames from the village."

  He shook his head sadly, as if the memory was still all too clear inside his head. "I waited for him at the cottage, meanwhile discovering that the door around the back was also locked, as were the windows. When Fames arrived he broke a pane in the kitchen window and undid the latch; then he climbed in."

  Midge moved closer to me. A car sped by, a wooden dog nodding its head at us from the rear window as if it already knew what was coming next.

  "He was quite pallid when he opened the door and beckoned me inside. Because of the expression on his face, and the odious smell that came from the kitchen, I entered with some trepidation."

  S
ixsmythe was looking back at the cottage, not at us. "As I told you, Flora Chaldean was at the table as though she had only just sat down to drink tea. But the cup was filled with a liquid green mold. And Flora's body was so corrupted and crawling with maggots that it was obvious that she had been dead for several weeks."

  My stomach turned over like a sluggish spin dryer and I thought Midge's tan had become a shade lighter. She reached for me and I held on to her.

  Sixsmythe appeared oblivious, his attentions concentrated on the puzzle that he, himself, had posed. "So the passers-by couldn't possibly have seen her in the garden just days before. The coroner later confirmed what we already knew: the deteriorated condition of Flora's body indicated that she had died at least two or three weeks before, alone and, for all that time until my arrival, unnoticed. Rather sad, wouldn't you say? Yes, rather sad."

  With that, he pushed his bicycle from the grass shoulder and pedaled off down the road, waving good-bye over his shoulder at Midge and me without once looking back.

  Which was just as well: the angry expression on my face might have unbalanced him and caused a nasty accident.

  As you'd imagine, the rest of the day was somewhat spoiled. The kitchen of Gramarye lost a lot of its rustic charm with the idea of poor old Flora's rotting corpse sitting there at the table drinking moldering tea fixed in our minds, and Midge lapsed into a miserable silence right through until the evening. She sat on her own in the round room for a long time, and I let her be.

  I felt uneasy, not to say queasy, myself and could cheerfully have throttled the vicar for his insensitivity (more than once I wondered if his graphic bluntness hadn't been deliberate, perhaps a petty retribution for our mild scoffing at his warning—but then, men of the cloth are not the vengeful type, are they? Well, are they?).

  Still, the day wasn't all bad. Later on in the afternoon Bob called with some terrific news. Phil Collins liked one of the songs I'd cowritten with Bob, wanted to record the number for an album some time during the following week, and would I care to sit in on the session? Would I? Bob took my garbled rambling into the receiver as a firm "yes."

  Midge was naturally delighted for me when I broke the news—our self-imposed period of not accepting any professional undertakings would be almost over by next week, and recording with a megastar wasn't a bad way to get rolling again, especially when one of my own songs was involved. She did her best to throw off her gloom, although she was still a little subdued, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening enthusing with me. Early that night we enthused our way up to the bedroom and the excitement didn't end there. Let's say it was nicely rounded off.

  Eventual sleep was marred for me by a dream of taking tea with the maggoty Flora Chaldean downstairs in the kitchen, tiny wriggling white things dropping from her leprous hand into the brew as she stirred it before passing me the cup.

  Thank God I awoke before I drank, for the last nightmare image was of a decomposed, almost fleshless, finger floating on top of the green furry liquid.

  MYCROFT

  THE FOLLOWING Sunday we drove out to the Forest Inn for a snack lunch and a well-earned drink. What with the forthcoming recording session, set for the following Wednesday, and most of the tasks around the cottage now completed, we were in the mood for celebration.

  I drank two pints of bitter with my lunch while Midge stuck to her customary orange juice; maybe it was because I was out of practice, but I felt fairly light-headed after I drained the last of the second pint, and more than ready for another. Midge had had enough of the pub, though, and in a way I couldn't blame her: after the tranquility of Gramarye, the crowd and the noise—this place was obviously a popular Sunday watering hole for both tourists and locals alike—was a little hard to take. The bustle and smoky atmosphere were in direct contrast to the peaceful and unpolluted existence we had quickly become used to (although I have to admit I quite enjoyed the change). Without too much protest from me, we left and walked arm in arm toward the Passat.

  It was Midge's suggestion that we take a drive and explore some. We hadn't had much opportunity before, apart from walks into the woodland surrounding Gramarye and shopping trips into Cantrip and Bunbury, so it wasn't a bad idea providing we kept away from the mainroads which would be busy with day-trippers. I reversed the car from the parking space and headed away from the inn, breaking into loud song as we hit the road.

  We soon turned off onto a quiet lane that snaked into a dense part of the forest, the twists and turns demanding all my concentration. The upper branches of trees formed a leafy tunnel, providing a pleasant relief from the hot sun. To be honest, I think we both had an idea where this road might lead, even though neither of us voiced an opinion: we were curious about the Synergists, our interest kindled by Sixsmythe's warning rather than cooled. Not that we wanted anything to do with them—in fact, it had been a relief that neither Kinsella nor the others had visited us since the blond bomber's departure the previous week. We only wanted to take a closer look at the gray house, the Temple itself. Nothing earnest, no deep motivation—only a destination for an afternoon drive. We'd discussed the Synergists, sure enough, and had easily come to the conclusion that they were no threat to mature and sensible people like us. Possibly Sixsmythe's stupid disclosure of Flora Chaldean's macabre death scenario hadn't exactly endeared him to us, so his views were not taken too seriously. Midge had been pensive for days afterward, but had eventually shed dark thoughts and relaxed in Gramarye's warm ambience once more. I'm sure the constant attention of birds and various animals around the place helped in this respect, bristling life banishing shadowy specters. The cottage would never be quite the same, but our peace of mind had been only slightly dented, not permanently damaged.

  As you've already gathered, it had been an exceptionally glorious summer, and a small price had to be paid. The debt collector was about to rap on the windscreen as we sped down that secluded lane.

  The Passat had spent weeks out under the boiling sun, used regularly and, to my discredit, rarely checked over. When I saw steam rising over the hood I tried to remember when I had last topped up the radiator. The temperature gauge was way up in the danger zone and a red light glared disgustedly at me.

  "Shit!" I growled as clouds rose up in front.

  Midge, who had never been machine-minded, said, "What's wrong with it, Mike?"

  I could glare just as hard as that bloody red light, and Midge turned her head to the front once again.

  "Sorry I asked," she said.

  I brought the car to a halt and sat there, letting the engine and myself steam for a while.

  "Can you fix it?" Midge ventured after a while, watching the billowing clouds as though they were part of the afternoon's entertainment.

  Forcing myself to relax, I replied, "Only by spitting in the radiator." I studied the clouds too, but with less awe than Midge.

  "Don't you think you should try and do something?"

  I sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe only the fan belt's gone. You wearing tights today?"

  She gave me a quick flash and dashed my hopes. Groaning, I pushed open the door. "Pull that thing up, will you, Midge?" I pointed at a lever on the passenger side. She did so and the hood sprang open an inch.

  I got out of the car and walked around to the front, muttering to myself as I slid my fingers through the gap and released the hood catch. Pushing the lid all the way up and turning my face away from the tumbling steam, I secured the hood with the retaining rod, then peered into the dragon's mouth. The fan belt was in good shape.

  Maybe the demon drink had been enough to dull my senses, or I could have just had a mental relapse for a moment or two, because then I did something stupid, something that all motorists are warned against by those who know better: I took out my handkerchief, bunched it up over the radiator cap, and twisted.

  The idea was to release the pressure, but of course once the cap was loosened, boiling water exploded upward like a thermal geyser. My left hand instinctively shot
up to protect my eyes as I staggered backward and I howled—no, I screamed—when my skin was scalded by the fiery jet.

  I fell, clutching at my arm and writhing with pain in the roadway. I was dimly aware of Midge kneeling beside me, trying to hold me still so that she could examine the burns. Some of my face and neck had been scalded, but the all-consuming pain was in my left hand and lower arm. My short-sleeved denim shirt was wet, but had at least provided a thin barrier against the boiling water for my chest.

  I managed to sit, Midge supporting me with an arm around my back; my vision was too blurred with pain-squeezed tears for me to see the damage to my hand, but the agony was more than I'd ever felt in my life before.

  Suddenly Midge was on her feet waving her arms frantically in the air. I was conscious of a red car drawing up, two figures getting out and hurrying over to me, one of them vaguely familiar. They knelt in the road and the mail—the other was a young girl—gently pulled at my injured arm.

  "Oh dear, oh dear," I heard him mutter. Then he reached behind me and hauled me to my feet. "You'd better come along with us so we can quickly attend to that."

  I looked down at my injured limb, blinking, away the dampness from my eyes, and saw that the skin was already beginning to bubble. Gritting my teeth, I allowed them to lead me to their car.

  If anything, Midge was more distressed than me so, now I was over the initial shock, I did my best to grin reassuringly at her. It must have come out as an agonized grimace, because her mouth went down at the corners like a small child's and she fought back tears.

  I was guided into the back seat of the couple's car, clutching my arm before me as if it were a freshly boiled lobster, and when the girl climbed into the driver's seat I recognized the braided hair, then the face as she turned anxiously toward me: it was Sandy, the girl I had rescued from the village punks the week before.