“You said you were repelled by them.”
“You said it!” Ellen shuddered with repressed fury. “All I’m saying is that—once in a while, I would have liked to lie beside you in a frilly nightgown. Just lie there with your arms around me: quietly, peacefully. Your wife. Your girl.” Her voice broke and she rose abruptly. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
“To hell with my breakfast!”
“You don’t want any now?” Her reply was quiet, stripped of emotion.
“I don’t want any now.”
She nodded once. “Then there isn’t any reason why we shouldn’t leave, is there?”
David felt his stomach muscles jerking in.
“You do want to leave, don’t you?” she asked.
He had no answer.
“You do want to leave, don’t you?”
His smile was venomous. “I’ll tell you when I know,” he said.
Silence so encompassed him that it seemed as if he heard each separate raindrop drumming on the windows and was able to identify the cannonading roar of each wave breaking on the shore. He returned her gaze willfully, staring at her eyes until her face went out of focus.
He started as she looked around, spoke.
“What?”
Her voice was calm. “I asked where my jacket is.”
“It’s in the car.”
“And the keys?”
He swallowed. “In the car.”
She nodded once, politely. “Thank you.” As she started toward the door, he felt a wrenching spasm in his heart. Don’t leave! he thought.
She turned to look at him.
“I’m going to the nearest telephone,” she told him quietly. “I’m going to call home and see how Mark and Linda are. Then I’m going to call the airport and make reservations. After that, I’m going to come back and see if you’re ready to leave.” She paused. “If you’re not,” she said, “I’m going home without you.” The door thumped shut and she was gone.
David felt as though he were about to rush to the door and fling it open, call to her: I didn’t mean it! Let’s go home right now! Then he heard the car being driven away and knew that it was too late.
He was alone in the house.
“No.” He looked around, aghast. Was Marianna here?—about to have her way with him again? For a long while he sat in terrified anticipation. Only as minutes passed and nothing happened did he close his eyes, shoulders slumping with relief.
Which faded in moments. How could there be relief, his situation being what it was? He tried to understand what was happening but it made no sense to him. He wanted to leave, yet he’d instructed Ellen to make breakfast here. He wanted to go home, yet he’d acted as if he had no intention of doing so. He’d wanted to say specific things, yet been incapable of it. What it narrowed down to was that he was behaving in a manner inconsistent with his desires—to the point of uttering words which directly contradicted his will. In brief, he was displaying every symptom of a person under control. But whose control? Marianna’s? He wouldn’t accept that; it was just too much at variance with his convictions. Which left only one possibility: that the conflict came from his sub-conscious.
That his mind was slipping.
“No.” He forced himself to stand and move for the kitchen, trying to ignore the bite of pain in his leg, the stiff, shuffling gait he was compelled to use. There was nothing wrong with his mind. It was guilt that made him act as he did.
He stopped abruptly, twisting around as a car drove up outside. She’d come back! An anxious smile pulled at his lips as he moved for the door. I’m sorry, Ellen. Let’s go home right now. His fingers closed around the knob and pulled.
He stood unmoving as Mrs. Brentwood ran to the doorway and stopped. “Expecting me?” she asked, half smiling.
“I—” David shook his head, unable to finish.
She stepped into the house, her raincoat brushing against him, making him twitch. She turned to him. “Aren’t you going to close the door?”
Swallowing, he pushed it shut.
“I passed your wife.”
He waited.
“She’s coming back, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“And both of you are leaving?”
David couldn’t answer.
“Both of you are leaving, Mister Cooper?”
“Yes.”
She looked relieved. “When I saw your car still parked outside this morning …”
He wondered why he felt such animosity toward her.
“Mister Cooper?”
“What?”
“You are leaving?”
He felt the skin drawn tight across his cheekbones. “Would you like it in writing?” he asked.
She winced. “Dear God, the truculence. Already, the truculence.”
His fingers seemed to curl in of their own accord until the nails were digging at his palms. “I suppose that means something,” he said.
“It means, my dear man, that, if you fail to leave this house today, you may never leave it. Sane, that is.”
After a few moments, he snickered and turned away.
“Listen!” She grabbed his arm. “You are possessed! No matter how inane the notion seems to you, you are possessed; your will is almost gone.” She dug her fingertips into his flesh until they hurt. “You had better listen to me, Mister Cooper. There is no antagonist on earth more ghastly than the dead who will not rest. Marianna is a twisted, blighted soul. All her life she thought of nothing but carnality. Terry Lawrence had no meaning to her other than providing her with one more body she could use—as she is using yours. Yes, I know that too,” she added as he stiffened.
“Before she died, Marianna had an endless succession of lovers, each more vile than the one preceding—until, near the end, she wallowed in lust with men who were more animal than human—brutes, degenerates. The last of them—an alcoholic laborer who’d been in jail a dozen times for sex offenses—beat her up so savagely that, half-insane, she killed herself; drove both hands through one of the studio windows, cut her veins and bled to death. This is the creature who controls you, fascinates you. Oh, don’t deny it. Spare me that, at least. Just leave this cottage.”
David felt himself about to topple, the floor rising under him. “All that just because she’s young?” he said, defensively. “Just because she has the beauty you lost?” He shook his head. “How you must hate her. Your own child.”
“Oh.” She spoke the word as though it were a groan of pain. “Dear God, dear God—again?” Her smile was bitter. “Well, why does it startle me?” she said. “It’s not the first time. And, of course, you believed her, naturally, you would. She’s such a skillful liar. How could you not believe her?”
“Which is to tell me, I presume, that you’re not her mother.”
Her laugh was harsh, astringent.
“My dear man,” she said. “Marianna was my sister.”
Again, that feeling of the floor beginning to elevate, tilt. He fought it off.
“I hadn’t planned to tell you that” she said. “Actually, you’re only the second tenant of this house I haue told.” She paused. “The other was that poor wretch who went insane. It did no good to tell him, of course. He didn’t believe a word I said.”
“Nor do I, Mrs. Brentwood.”
She seemed to give up then, her expression becoming that of an opponent who had renounced all interest in the battle. David pressed in, strengthening his advantage. “I find it somewhat suspect that, again, you’ve given me no real evidence,” he said. “Surely, it exists—especially if you’re her sister. A certificate of death, for instance. Newspaper items.”
“They exist,” she said. “I have them in my house.”
“Where they will, doubtless, remain,” he broke, “unseen by anyone except yourself.”
She shrugged.
“Forgive me if I speak my mind,” he said. “But you must consider me an idiot. A ghost with flesh? With breath? A ghost I could make love to?�
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Her lack of reaction flustered him. “How painfully ignorant you are,” she said. “But, then, how could someone of your sort be expected to know that psychic literature abounds with authenticated cases of ghosts whose appearances—to all five senses of their viewers—were those of living people?” Her smile ridiculed him. “Including breath and lovemaking,” she said.
He shuddered. “And, of course, they all wore clothes,” he mocked, uneasily. “Walked on stairs and opened doors.”
“And lifted objects and made shadows and strangled people,” she appended. “Quite.”
She raised her hands as if to mollify him. “Not seeking, for a moment, to dissuade you,” she continued, “but it must be obvious—even to you—that, if Marianna not only doesn’t care for you to know that she’s a ghost but doesn’t even choose to believe it herself, she would, accordingly, remove and put on clothes in your sight although she could, as easily, make them vanish and appear in seconds. She would open doors when she could, if she chose, pass through them like a vapor. She would walk on stairs even though she is capable of moving from place to place in an instant.”
David’s mind reeled back, impotently. He clutched for more defenses finding only one. Happily, it was irrefutable. He flung it into her face. “And could she, also, remove a locket and chain from around her neck and leave it overnight in my possession?”
Dear God, that smile again.
“An apport, Mister Cooper—a materialized object which can exist for indefinite periods of time. In this case, an object removed from my house—where it is at this moment, locked inside a jewel box in Marianna’s room.” She gestured casually. “But, of course, that’s a lie. I made it up just now.” She looked at him another moment before taking hold of the doorknob.
“One concluding lie,” she said. “It just occurred to me; it’s so unique I really must pass it along. Do you know why you feel exhausted?—Why your solar plexus aches?—Why you’re so dehydrated? This will amuse you. Because you’ve been acting as a medium. The body you’ve been—making love to, as you so quaintly put it, has consisted, in every detail, of the cells in your own body. Isn’t that a marvelous lie? Wait, I’ll make it better. You were aware of it all the time. The sensation was that of drawing in your solar plexus. And, now, goodbye. Have fun.”
She left the door ajar so that the cold wind rushed in, spraying the floor with rain. David stumbled across the room and closed it slowly. Turning back, he moved to the nearest chair and sank down on it. It isn’t true, he told himself. It had been nothing but reverse psychology, the liar calling the lie a lie in order to imply its truth. They were lies though; all of them. They had to be because—
He gave it up. He simply didn’t know anymore. All his mind would retain was the sickening notion that he may have been in essence, making love to his own flesh. If it were true, it meant that he had consummated, in literal terms, what, emotionally, he’d been doing all these years—holding personal gratification above all else.
“God …” He shut his eyes, aware of hot tears trickling down his cheeks yet hardly feeling them. I’ve got to leave this place. He clenched his teeth. If he could just hold on until Ellen got back. He could leave it all behind then, start off, fresh. Hang on, he pleaded with himself. She’s coming back, she’ll be here soon. Just hang on.
He jerked up his head as the front door closed. (Had he fallen asleep?) He stared at Ellen as she crossed the chair and stopped in front of him. His mind seemed vacant.
“The baby was born last night,” she said. He started to speak but she cut him off. “The delivery was complicated and Linda’s still in the hospital in serious condition.”
David looked at her in silence. Yes, of course, he thought; we’ll go immediately. “How serious?” he asked.
Ellen frowned. “Does it matter?” she asked. “Will it alter your decision about going?”
“I asked you a question.”
“She may die, David.” Hearing the break in her voice, he noticed suddenly—how could he have missed it?—that she was fighting back tears. My god, El, I’m sorry, he thought; of course we’ll go. He sat mutely, staring at her. Speak, he thought, not knowing if it was in reference to her or to himself.
“David, are you going?” she demanded.
“No,” he said. A burst of panic scourged his mind. I mean yes! he thought. Of course, I’ll go!
Ellen looked appalled. “Even though she’s in the hospital?” she asked. She gazed at him as if he’d been exposed to her as an imposter. “Even though she may die?”
“Get out of here,” he heard himself answering. That isn’t me, he thought, terrified. I don’t mean it, El. I want to go but—
“I don’t understand you, David.” She began to cry. “I just don’t understand you anymore.”
He wanted desperately to jump up, put his arms around her, comfort her, drive her to the airport and take her home. In the very act of wanting it, he heard his voice say, coldly, “Too bad.” Ellen, help me! he thought.
“My God,” she murmured. “What’s happened to you?”
“Allow me to inform you,” he said, his voice low-pitched, cunning. That isn’t me! screamed his mind. “I finally know what I want. Not you. Not marriage—parenthood—boredom.” He felt his lips drawn back in a grin. No, he thought; God help me, no.
“Sex,” he muttered. “Lust. You know what I mean? Depravity.” He felt the muscles tensing in his arms, felt them pushing him up from the chair. Ellen started backing off, a look of sick dismay on her face. “Get the picture? I’m sick and tired of your sanctimonious bitching.” (No!) “I want women. Women: any kind I can get, old or young, I don’t care. I want to glut myself on them; grovel in the mud with them.” (No!) “Sluts! Whores! Pigs!” The words spouted from his lips like acid; he felt his body convulsed as he tracked her across the room. “I want obscenity! Orgies and defilement! Filth! Pollution!” His voice scaled upward to a shrill, demented screaming. “God damn you, get the hell away from me before I kill you!”
As he lunged for her, she stumbled and fell backward on the stairs, hitting her head. David’s claw-like hands collided, fingers bending back and, tripping over Ellen’s legs, he crashed to his left knee, crying out at the fiery explosion in his kneecap. Blinded by the pain, he flung his head back, gagging. Darkness swirled around him and he plunged to his right side, clutching at the knee with palsied fingers. Up! a voice commanded. He raised his head. Ellen was sprawled across the bottom steps, gaping at him, her expression one of horror. Oh, my God, he thought. He reached out with a shaking hand. “Ellen.” He could barely speak, his voice turbid and strained—but, at last, his own. “Get me out of here. Something awful in this cottage. Not me.” He sucked in wheezing breath. “Please take me home,” he whispered hoarsely.
She was nodding. Wasn’t she? He blinked and squinted at her. Yes! Nodding slowly, she was pushing to her feet. “All right,” she said. “All right.” She started backing up the stairs, weaving unsteadily. “All right.”
David slumped to his side again, the coldness of the floorboards pressing at his cheek. It’s going to be all right, he thought. She understands; she knows it wasn’t me that said those things. Later, I’ll explain it: later. He closed his eyes, reassurance flowing into him. He felt the muscles in his arms and legs unknotting. Relax, he thought. It’s over now. He lay immobile, listening to the rain. Quiescence washed across him like a sun-warmed current. Wonderful, he thought; almost a repetition of the buoyant way he’d felt when—
David pushed up, grasping. Suddenly, the relaxation of his body terrified him. Dear God, he couldn’t even feel the pain in his leg anymore! Lurching to his feet, he floundered up the stairs as rapidly as possible. It wasn’t true; it couldn’t be. “Ellen?” He called to her in dread. “Ellen!”
Just inside the bedroom doorway, he stumbled into her jacket and froze, gaping at her. She was leaned against the headboard of the bed, half prone, half sitting. She’d pulled her skirt up past her hips, unbu
ttoned her blouse and, breathing hard, eyes widened, bright with craving, was tugging up her brassiere. Her breasts fell loose and clutching at them eagerly, she began to writhe on the mattress. As David watched in shock, she pulled both breasts toward her mouth, declined her chin and started licking at the hardened nipples, running her tongue around and over them, eyes half shut, short, animal-like gruntings in her throat. He moved across the room, staring at her unbelievingly. When he reached the bed, Ellen glanced up, then, with a lascivious smile, returned to her breasts, kissing and licking them with shameless absorption. His presence only seemed to stimulate her further.
“Ellen …” David felt as much embarrassed as dismayed. He’d never, in his life, seen a woman making love to herself, least of all his own wife. The sight unnerved and frightened him even though he was unable to suppress a tremor of distorted excitation. “Ellen, don’t,” he muttered.
She looked up. “Why? You want to do it yourself?” Before he could respond in amy way, she dipped her head and started in again.
“Ellen!” He grabbed her hands and held them tightly. Jerking up her head, she glared at him. “Let go of me,” she said, her voice malignant, coarse.
“Ellen, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Her laughter chilled him. “Idiot,” she said. “You’re the one who doesn’t know.” Unexpectedly, she jerked her hands free and seized her breasts again. Holding them upright, she stared at herself with a look of covetous longing. “To have a body,” she said, “to be able to feel it and caress it. A real body.”
Horror pierced him to the heart Struck dumb, he watched her as she twisted on the bed, abandoned to her craze of self adoring. He sensed his lips moving without sound, felt the word rising in his throat. At last it came. “Marianna?” He leaned over, trying to distinguish something in her face. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
She let her head thump back against the headboard, smiled at him. He felt nausea cloud his stomach. “Isn’t it?”
She only smiled and asked “Who?”
He shuddered. “Don’t.”
“Who’s Marianna?”
“Damn you!” David almost sobbed the words.
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