by Andre Norton
“Dr. Harveling!” She hailed Ilse in the same nervously enthusiastic voice as that with which she had greeted Louise. “It was so very good of you to come—so very kind—” For a moment she paused, her lips tightened as if she were fighting for control.
Ilse knew fear when she saw it eroding another. She smiled and held out her hand, closing it about the nervously fluttering one of her hostess.
“I am Ilse Harveling, yes. And you are Mrs. Lawrence who has brought this old place back to life.”
“Life!” the other interrupted her. “No,” it was as if she gave herself an order, not addressed her guests. “We shall have time—Oh, but I am so glad you could come! Eliza is ready to serve us what this locality calls a ‘spread’—she has a wealth of old recipes—her mother was from a Stuben family and, if they did not allow any pleasures for the eye or the ear, they did not stint at the table.”
She led them on down a short passage into a long room which had once been the kitchen. The huge fireplace still had its spit and pot chains in place. The door to the brick side oven looked ready to be opened for instant use.
There were two chairs at the deep arch of the hearth opening. A long dresser with an enticing wealth of old blue-and-white wear stood against the wall. But the larger part of the room was occupied by half a dozen small tables each covered with a blue-and-white-checked cloth, the attending chairs bearing matching cushions.
Ilse and Louise were firmly steered to one of the tables, urged on by the hostess as if they were famine refugees who must be fed at once. As soon as they were seated, Mrs. Lawrence vanished through an opposite door, probably to summon the “spread” before they could really adjust to their surroundings.
Louise’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Well?”
Again Ilse had been studying what lay about her. “Your friend is a badly frightened person. She is not like herself today. Is she?”
Louise shook her head. “I never saw her this way before. And I have been here a number of times. Jack and I often have Sunday dinner here. They’ve been open for almost a year. It’s a treasure house, really. I can’t believe that—”
She was silent as Marj Lawrence returned, pushing a table cart on which there were a number of dishes.
It appeared that Mrs. Lawrence was determined to play the part of hostess—during her time away she had once more gained full control—and as they lunched (and very well), she kept her flow of subject matter away from any problem. There was no mention of a shadowed past, and certainly not of any fatality within these walls.
As they lingered over coffee, Ilse quietly guided the conversation with simple questions concerning restoration problems, and she mentioned their having seen the deserted Stuben church. Marj Lawrence plunged in, into what was undoubtedly one of her deepest interests.
“Yes, the Stubens are all gone. Their settlement really lasted only for a couple of generations. Johanus Stuben was a prophet of the old school, and his successor, Rueben Straus, tried to carry on but they turned against him. Rueben was a queer mixture. Look here!”
She jumped up from the table and went to a ledge running across the mantel, to return holding an object she set down before Ilse.
“Now what do you think of that?”
It was a carved candlestick of aged wood, worn a little by years of handling. But its thickly patterned display of intertwined vines and leaves was still in strong relief. As Ilse picked it up and turned it around, she could see minute additions to those vines and leaves which were only visible to the seeking eye. Here was a face peeping from under a leaf—a face which was subtly nonhuman; there a weird insect was in half-hiding.
She cupped it with both hands and closed her eyes for a moment. No, she was not mistaken. Though it had never been used as she first feared, the skill which had shaped this had known secret things. As it was, it held no menace, but that menace could have been called forth.
“This was made by Straus—the pattern is foreign, perhaps Black Forest, perhaps Austrian.”
“Rueben Straus made it right here.” Marj Lawrence’s hand swung perhaps to indicate this room. “He wasn’t one of the first Stubens, though they say he was related to old Johanus. He and his sister, Hanna, came later. He was a hunchback and couldn’t farm, but he earned his way as a carpenter and by making things like that. Only that one he made specially as a gift for Gyles Walden, the man who owned this house.
“Hanna Straus came to be cook here. By all the old gossip she was more than a cook. Gyles had a roving eye, but no wish for a wife. Only the Strauses did not believe that. Hanna worked on filling the dower chest Rueben made for her, and he did what he could to provide her with a dowry.
“But when it came down to the actual calling in of the preacher, Gyles went off on a trip. He came back from the east with a wife—a rich widow—and she soon sent the Strauses packing.”
Suddenly Mrs. Lawrence’s flow of words slackened. “But all that ancient history can’t have anything to do with—”
All her animation vanished as fear again showed in her eyes.
“Please,” Ilse said quietly. She pushed aside the candlestick and put her hand gently on Mrs. Lawrence’s wrist as the other woman stared at her with an almost childlike plea. “Tell us what you know of the past. It may have more bearing on your trouble than you think.”
“But it can’t. After all, people who died more than a century ago—”
“And who were those dead?”
“The story is that Hanna drowned herself—she was going to have Gyles’ child. And Rueben buried her in the dower chest he had made for her. He quarreled with the Stubens, and they threw him out, saying that he had dealings with the devil. He was found dead in the woods, and they said he had fought with Gyles. But no one ever tried to find out.
“Oh—” she was flushed and it was plain she was even more upset, “—maybe it is all my fault! I thought it was so clever to go hunting down all the old stories. I wanted to make a booklet, you see—just like those they sell at the old English houses open for visitors. There was the curse rumor, too—”
“A curse?” The quiet question stemmed the flow of words for a second. Marj Lawrence had dropped her eyes and was looking down at the crumbs on the plate before her.
“There was an old letter—we found it while we were cleaning out the long attic. That was a mess, and it took us just days—but the things we found—!” She touched the candlestick. “It was like a treasure hunt.”
“The letter?” Ilse drew her back to face a subject it was very plain she did not want to discuss.
“Yes, well, it was sent to Gyles’ wife after she had gone to New York. It was almost a threat—all about how her husband had paid, but the price not enough. It warned her against coming back here, but she did—only long enough to sell the house to the first of the Hartles.”
“And the price Gyles was supposed to have paid?” persisted Ilse.
“He died—very suddenly—in his bed. Probably a heart—” Mrs. Lawrence’s eyes went wide, and she stared at Ilse. “A heart attack,” she finished in a voice hardly above a whisper.
“And the Hartles—they lived here for several generations, did they not? Was there any trouble recorded in their day—any stories?”
Marj Lawrence shook her head. “There’s been nothing wrong. And we’ve been here for nearly two years. There have been workmen all over the place since we opened and after—and nothing except the things which always cause trouble: plumbing, heating, leaks.
“I—I didn’t go ahead with the booklet idea; somehow I didn’t want to. But we did give it the name people called it before the Hartles took over. ‘Hex House’ was so different. And everything was going so well until that Mark Walden showed up!”
“Mark Walden—Gyles Walden—there was a connection?”
“Maybe. He said something about wanting to see some of the older places around the valley. He was pleasant enough, but there was something about him—he was very reserved and stayed to himsel
f. The police asked questions afterward, they and his partner—where he had gone and what he had done—but nobody had really paid any attention. The partner said he had been engaged in a big law case which had been before the court for a long time, and after it was over he decided he needed a rest. Somehow he ended up here.” Once more her gust of speech died.
“Mark Walden . . .” Ilse repeated slowly.
“You know him?” Louise demanded.
“Of him. He was a criminal lawyer of standing in some circles. So Mr. Walden died of a heart attack?”
“Yes. He had left a note on the hall desk to be called at seven in the morning, as he wanted an early start to return home. The church fair was the day before, and I saw him there. He bought some old books and a cane—something he certainly had no real use for. When he didn’t answer Tom’s knock on the door in the morning, we waited a while, but he had been so insistent that we call him that Tom finally used the pass key. He was lying across the bed—dead. Tom called Dr. Albright, and the doctor got the police. They asked questions, but the autopsy proved it was his heart.”
“You question that?” Ilse was aware that this volatility had been born of fear. Those hands twisting together, the eyes which no longer met hers, were reactions she well recognized.
“His—his face—” Marj Lawrence swung around in her chair as if to elude Ilse as much as she could.
“The face?” prompted Ilse.
“I—I saw—but Tom says that I just imagined it. I was afraid to say anything afterward to the doctor. By the time he got here it was—changed. Maybe—maybe I did just imagine it. But then why do I keep on having those horrible dreams?”
“You have dreamed? But first tell me what was it in Mr. Walden’s face which frightened you so?”
“It looked—he looked as if he had been caught by some kind of monster. Oh, it does sound stupid. But he looked so afraid. And one of his hands had clawed at his own throat. That cane he had bought at the fair was in his other hand, one end of it caught at the top of the bed. But by the time the doctor came the horrible look had smoothed away. Only then the dreams began.”
“Yes, the dreams,” Ilse said. “What about the dreams?”
“Always the same thing. I am standing in the hallway right outside the door to that room. I have to open it, although I am afraid.” She shivered. “It is dark inside, but still I can see. It isn’t a room anymore at all but like a wood of trees with their limbs moving back and forth—reaching—I’ve managed to keep quiet about it, especially around Tom. He’d think I had lost my mind. But I can’t keep on!” Her voice arose shrilly, sliding into hysteria.
Ilse was out of her chair, leaning over the woman, holding both those hands in a firm, restraining grip.
“Louise, in my bag—the small bottle with the silver top.” Her tone held authority enough to send the other scrambling to obey.
“Twist off the lid and hold the bottle under her nose!”
As Louise obeyed Marj took a deep breath—half choked, as a strong scent filled the room.
“Again.” Ilse kept her grip on the woman’s wrists. “Take a deep breath and hold it as long as you can.” She watched sharp-eyed as the other followed her instructions. The taut body began to relax. Some of the flush faded from the other’s cheeks. The moisture which had gathered in the corners of her eyes formed tears.
“I’m—I’m all right.” She jerked to free herself from Ilse’s grip. A moment later she added, “I guess you think I’m an idiot—dreaming dreams such as that.”
“Mrs. Lawrence,” Ilse returned quietly, “you were moved to ask me here because of a danger which your spirit sensed, even if your mind cannot identify it. This is a troubled house, and the heart of that trouble must be found and cleansed. You spoke earlier of a curse—such are often a source for scoffing these days but, as with all things, there is often a kernel of truth at the heart of such stories. I wish now to see this room which is the center of your evil dreams and which has already sheltered death.”
Without another word, but as might an obedient child, Marj Lawrence pushed away from the table and led the way into a hall from which a staircase led up past paneled walls polished into life. There was another hall above, and the shut doors of what must be a half dozen rooms faced each other across a strip of tightly woven rag carpet. It was to the last of these that Mrs. Lawrence brought them, throwing open that door but standing aside so that they could enter the room or not as they pleased.
It was not a dark room, nor did it look in any way threatening. The walls had been papered with a pleasing design of green vines, showing here and there clusters of pale lavender flowers. There was a framed sampler on the wall and what might be authentic old engravings of European style, picturing ancient houses and forest-bound castles.
One wall gave center room to a tall, free-standing wardrobe of pre-closet days, the mirror door of which, though polished, was slightly misted by age. A more modern chest of drawers flanked the doorway. By the window in the right wall, which had short drapery repeating the vine pattern, was an inlaid table on which stood a lamp, and a chair, the arms and back of which were heavily carved, cushioned in green plush.
There was also a small bedside table with a very modern reading lamp in place beside a pile of books. Another chair, less impressive than the first, with chintz cushions promising more comfort, was drawn up by the second window, which broke the wall against which the head of the bed had been placed. At the foot of that piece of furniture itself was a dower chest painted with an age-faded pattern.
However, the bed dominated the room. The head, though well above six feet in height, was not solid. Instead, wands of dark wood had been woven like wreaths or vines. Yet there were thicker places where a number of those entwined by some freak of pattern and those portions showed evidence of carving.
The foot was not so tall but was of the same workmanship. And the wood, which showed no evident dust, still appeared overset with a filmy cast.
Mrs. Lawrence made no effort to join Ilse and Louise. And Louise herself stepped in no farther than just within the door. It was Ilse who advanced to within touching distance of the bed.
“You didn’t have that here before—I didn’t see it at the open house.” Louise’s voice was almost accusatory.
“It was one of our finds in the attic. We had a hard time cleaning it up. It had just been jammed back in the corner and was covered with dust.”
“It is made of yew,” Ilse said as if she had been paying no attention to them. “ ‘Churchyard yew’ they used to name it, for it was mainly planted there.”
Delicately, as if her touch might disturb something better not alerted, Ilse’s fingers continued to trace the curves and hollows of those wands. Her head came up a fraction; she might have been questing as a hunter for a scent.
“There is something here, yes. Rage, hate, fear. But it sleeps.”
Suddenly she drew back the hand which had rubbed the ancient wood. “By the same hand—this was also made by Rueben Straus. His mark is graven into this wood even as it stamps the candlestick and—something else—”
Ilse moved now to the head of the bed. It was made up ready for use with an intrically patterned quilt for coverlet. Ilse slipped off her shoes and climbed close to that billow of quilt marking the hidden pillows, bending her head very close to the carving. Once more she raised her right hand and finger traced a path of weaving.
“A wedding bed.” It was more as if she murmured to herself than addressed those with her. “Symbols for good fortune, for fruitfulness, blessings—all here.” She shook her head. “This was meant to bless, made by one who had knowledge, old, old learning. This,” she moved a fingertip across one of those knotted spots, “is the moon waxing, bringing life. Here is the heart wish in full. Yes, this was meant to bless, not to blast.”
She moved back a little but still knelt facing the headboard. Now she raised both hands to her temples, her eyes closed, her body tense. Then, as if a finger’s snap
ping had aroused her she turned to the two at the door.
“A blessing which is poisoned by a curse—so twice potent. There is something locked here which I cannot reach without deep seeking. Mrs. Lawrence, is the room exactly the same as it was on that night of death? What changes may have been made?”
Marj Lawrence came reluctantly into the chamber and looked around.
“Everything is the same—except his things are gone, of course. And the bed linen, that was changed.” She gave a small shiver. “That quilt I bought at the Kellermans’ sale last spring, and it was the right size, so I put it in here. We had not used it before.”
“Otherwise all is the same?” Ilse persisted, sliding down from the bed.
“Quite the same.”
Ilse’s right arm moved; her hand, palm flat, was held out before her as if to sense some energy arising from the floor. She had reached the wardrobe and stopped, in mid-step, her hand swinging as if it had been ensnared by a cord and jerked in that direction. In a moment she had the mirrored door open and was looking within. Then she went down on one knee to feel along the floor. There sounded a rattling and she brought into light a cane.
The length of most of its surface was smooth, but the top had been carved into a twist of vine. As Ilse swung her find into a patch of full sunlight they could all see a small head which was nearly concealed by a curve of that carven vine.
“Made with love,” Ilse said softly, “made for a gift with love and admiration. She who wished it loved deeply. Then—” she frowned. Her finger pointed but did not quite touch the shaft immediately below that carved head, “This!”
“What?” Louise pushed forward to look over her friend’s shoulder.
“Something of the dark—perhaps meant as a warning— or a threat—”
“But that is the cane Mr. Walden bought at the fair—at the white elephant table!” Marj joined them. “How did it get here? I thought we packed it with all his other things. He was quite taken with it—told Tom it was a real bargain. It must have fallen down in there and been forgotten.”