“I remember; we passed it the other day. Why didn’t we go in?”
“She’s a friend of Sylvia’s,” Andy said. “We’re not exactly buddies, Georgia and I. But she’s honest and knowledgeable. Just don’t sell her anything—especially the sampler.”
“I can’t sell anything. None of it belongs to me. Where’s the book, Andy?”
Andy produced the volume and sat down on the hearthrug so Meg could look over his shoulder as he leafed through the pages. There was no Anna Maria Huber. An Anne Hofstetter, whose birth was given only as a question mark, had married Amos Emig in 1774.
“The dates would be about right,” Andy muttered.
“No, they wouldn’t. Girls married young; your ancestress Anne must have been born in the 1750’s. If Anna Maria was eleven in 1734, she was born in 1723. Anyhow, why should she change her name?”
“I guess you’re right. But if she wasn’t related to the family, what was her sampler doing up in the attic?”
“I don’t know.” Meg leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. The drizzle of rain and the hiss of the fire made her sleepy after her day of hard work. “I suppose you’ve looked at the books in here. Anything we can use?”
“They’re all recent, and mostly fiction. Apparently none of my recent relatives were interested in antiques or in family history.”
“Uh-huh,” Meg said agreeably.
She was roused from a doze by Andy’s hand on her shoulder. “You had better go to bed. Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”
“All the way up those stairs?” Meg rubbed her eyes. “I’d like to see you try.”
“That sounds like a dare.”
Andy put his arms around her. Laughing, Meg slipped out of his grasp. He caught her wrist. He was smiling too, but there was a familiar gleam in his eyes, and Meg was in no mood for wresting or romance. She tried to free her arm.
The light began to fade, like the dimming of electric bulbs when the current is failing. A queer brownish haze spread over the room. Then Meg saw the girl. She was small and slim, with an absurdly tiny waist above her spreading peacock-blue skirts. A white apron emphasized the slimness of her waist, and there were other touches of white at wrists and throat. Her hair was yellow, falling in curls to her shoulders and held back from her face by a blue ribbon. But her face was only a shadowy blur. It seemed vitally important to Meg that she should see the face clearly. Unaware of Andy’s tightening grip, she strained to see. She was only vaguely aware of the fact that the part of the library where the blue-clad figure stood had also altered. Alien walls had replaced the velvet draperies of the library, but she could still see the draperies behind them, like a photographic double exposure.
The vision faded as it had come, with a slow vanishing; and Meg cried out at the pain of Andy’s taut fingers.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, dropping her hand. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s write it down, the way we did before.”
“Why bother?”
Andy looked as if he were going to be sick. Meg felt abnormally clear headed. She studied her companion critically.
“Wow, it really bugs you, doesn’t it? Come on, you were the one who said we had to be persnickety.”
It was Meg who found paper and pencils, and who forced Andy into a chair. When they exchanged papers, Meg found his writing almost indecipherable.
“‘Girl in blue dress,”“ she read aloud. ”’Blond hair.“ You’ll never make a living as a writer, Andy, if that’s the best you can do. Didn’t you see any background?”
Andy’s blank stare focused. Annoyance countered shock, as Meg had hoped it would.
“God, you’re a cold-blooded specimen, Meg. Give me a minute to catch my breath. I’m not used to this, even if you are.”
He took the paper back and added a few more lines.
“That’s better,” Meg said. “‘She was standing by a fireplace. Benches or settles beside the hearth. Round rug. Things on the mantel.” The things were pots and crocks and dishes, don’t you suppose? The rug was braided…“
“Wait a minute. Are you describing what you saw, or what you think you ought to see? You didn’t write any of that down.”
“I didn’t see much of the room,” Meg admitted. “I was so intent on trying to see her face. The features were blurred, but I felt that if I concentrated, in another second or two I would see them plainly.”
“You saw the rest of the figure pretty clearly. ”White apron, collar, and cuffs; blond hair in ringlets, blue ribbon.“ How could you see all that and fail to see the face?”
“All of a sudden you’re a skeptic,” Meg said. “I thought you believed…”
Andy’s expression and voice were normal now—normally exasperated. “Of course I’m a skeptic. What I believe or disbelieve is absolutely irrelevant. We have to have a devil’s advocate.”
“Seems to me we keep switching roles.”
“Yes, we do, don’t we? But this—illusion, whatever you call it—is singularly unconvincing. If it hadn’t been for the first one, I’d write this off as suggestion.”
Meg started to object, but Andy raised his voice and continued, over her mutterings:
“We were talking about a girl, the one who made a sampler in 1734. A girl of Gennan origin, from her name. And you proceed to conjure up a blond damsel in an old-fashioned costume. That’s just what the professional mediums do—they see what they expect to see, and then they project the image to the receptive minds of the people near them, who are—”
“Feebleminded and weird,” Meg finished. “Like you. All right, I see your point. I see all your points. Scratch Anna Maria.”
“No, we don’t scratch her. We merely surround her with question marks. Ironically—the room was not the same one we saw the first time, was it?”
“No. At least, it wasn’t the same part of the room. Maybe we were seeing it from a different angle.”
“Maybe.”
They stared at one another across the library table.
“That’s it for tonight,” Meg said flippantly. “The show seems to be over. I think I’ll have a second try at getting to bed.”
“You aren’t afraid?”
“It’s funny, but I’m not.”
“No auras?” Andy persisted. “No feeling of impending doom, no sense of imminent evil?”
“I’m looking forward to reading your book,” Meg said. “You are a master of cliches.”
She rose. The first step wasn’t easy; she half expected another illusion to halt her progress. But nothing happened, so she continued to the door. Andy followed. He reminded her of a nervous puppy, crowding close on her heels but never actually touching her.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go tomorrow,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You aren’t—no, I asked you that before. I may have to be away for a couple of days, you know. Are you sure you aren’t going to be nervous?”
“You’re not much help with the ghosts,” Meg pointed out unkindly. “Don’t worry; if I see anything, I’ll record it in the proper fashion.”
“I may not be much help with ghosts, but I could be useful if Culver shows up.”
Meg was halfway up the stairs, with Andy close on her heels. She stopped. “Culver? I thought he and his charming lover were gone.”
“No such luck. They’re camping out in the state park.”
“Serves them right,” Meg said, with a glance at the rain-streaked window. “Maybe they’ll both catch pneumonia. Stop fussing, Andy. Culver won’t bother me.”
In spite of her bravado, Meg was disturbed by this piece of news. She didn’t really think Culver would threaten her physically; but why was he hanging around the area unless he had something in mind? Culver was weak and unstable, but he was not stupid; if he wanted to revenge himself for the fancied injury she had done him, his plan might take on strange forms. Even…
Even the creation
of a haunted house.
Meg was no longer sleepy, although the slow drip of the rain was as soothing as a lullaby. Lying straight and stiff under the blankets, she considered an idea that was by no means new to her. Could the manifestations have been produced by a human agent, using ordinary physical means?
The answer, of course, was yes. Meg was sufficiently familiar with stage magic to know that professionals can produce very convincing allusions. She was no professional, but even she could think of several methods of creating ghosts. The ethereal music was simple: a tape recorder or other portable recording device. As for the optical illusions, equally portable devices could produce them. A color projector would give an effect similar to what she had seen, with background objects showing through the image.
Culver had had time, after receiving his eviction notice, to concoct such a scheme, and it was the sort of thing an imaginative man might think of as an alternative to physical violence. That the illusions happened to fit Meg’s specific disability was pure luck—or maybe Culver knew what her ailment was. Gossip spreads in small towns.
An equally convincing case could have been made out for another suspect; but for some reason she preferred not to analyze, Meg did not consider it—at least not consciously.
II
Next morning the rain had stopped, but the ground was soggy, and the trees looked desolate with their drooping branches. Andy dropped Meg in Wasserburg before he started on his trip to Philadelphia. The car drove away in a cloud of exhaust smoke, and Meg watched it go with mixed feelings.
The Antique Market, a handsome old stone house, was on a side street. A sign on the gate said forbiddingly, “Admittance by Appointment Only.” Meg walked up the path and rang the bell.
After a while she rang the bell again. Finally she heard footsteps inside, and the door was flung open. The woman who confronted her with an inimical stare had obviously just woken up, and resented the fact. Her rusty-gray-and-red-streaked hair stood up in little wisps. She had a long, squared-off face with strong features that had started to sag; the lines in cheeks and forehead looked as if they had been cut with a chisel. She wore a pair of ragged jeans and a floppy, once-white man’s shirt with the tails out.
“Well?” said this apparition, in a growl.
I wonder how she makes a living, if this is the way she greets customers, Meg thought. Aloud she said, “Good morning. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. I’m Meg Rittenhouse, Sylvia’s cousin.”
“Oh.” Georgia Wilkes blinked. She rubbed her face vigorously with her hand. “What time is it?”
“Ten o’clock. But I can come back another—”
“No, you might as well come in.” Georgia stepped back and gestured Meg across the threshold. “I’m a wee teensy bit hung over, to tell the truth. Can you make decent coffee?”
“Why, yes, I think—”
“This way.”
Georgia closed the door very gently, and then pattered on ahead of Meg. She was barefoot. The front room had been the parlor of the house; it was now a sales room, crammed with objects that ranged from secretaries to snuffboxes. Meg had no time to examine them; Georgia led her through a door at the back, which had a “Private—No Admittance” sign tacked to its panels. They went down a dark, narrow hall and emerged into a kitchen. It was also dark and rather shabby, but somewhat to Meg’s surprise, it was in perfect order. The only discordant note was an empty bottle of bourbon that stood in the exact center of the kitchen table.
Georgia picked this up and deposited it in a bag under the sink. She then collapsed into a chair.
“Make instant; the other takes too long,” she ordered. “It’s on the third shelf to the left. Cups in the second. Water in the tap, teakettle on the stove, stove in the corner.”
Amused, Meg followed directions. Georgia said no more until the coffee was on the table. She picked up the cup and swallowed most of the contents, gasped, rubbed her eyes, and smiled.
“That’s better. I may live another day after all. Let’s have some breakfast.”
“Thank you, but I already had—” “Sit down, sit down. I’m beginning to function. Another cup of coffee and I’ll be running on all four cylinders.” “I really should apologize again for waking—” “No, I should thank you. I’ve got a sucker coming at noon. Snuffbox collector. If you hadn’t waked me up, I wouldn’t have made it.”
She was already moving around the kitchen, with a speed and efficiency that astonished Meg. Before long, Georgia was engulfing cereal and eggs, and Meg was nibbling at a slice of coffee-cake—rich and delicious and obviously homemade.
“Yes, I made it,” Georgia said, in answer to Meg’s question. “I’m a good cook. Good at a lot of other things, too.”
She laughed. The teacups on the shelf rattled. “Now,” Georgia went on, pushing her empty plate away and lighting a cigarette. “Let’s have the amenities— belated, but sincere. I believe in the amenities; I’m simply unable to comply with them early in the morning. I’m Georgia Wilkes. What a pleasure to meet you, my dear. Sylvia has spoken of you so often. I was sorry to hear you had been ill. How do you like our little town? I do hope you’re not lonely out there in that big old house. Is there anything I can do to make you feel at home here? Do feel free to call on me at any time.”
Meg began to laugh. Georgia grinned at her and lighted another cigarette with the stub of the first; she smoked in great gulps that burned down half an inch of cigarette at a breath.
“Good, you’ve got a sense of humor. Those big solemn eyes in that little pale face made me wonder. That, and the fact that you’re related to Sylvia, who has no sense of humor whatever.”
Meg could think of nothing to say to this, except things that should not be said. It seemed incredible that this woman could be a close friend of Sylvia’s.
Georgia needed no response. She rattled on.
“Poor old Sylvia. We were at school together, in case you were wondering how we happen to be friends. Not that that answers the question. We were just as unlike each other then as we are now. Sylvia was a fussy old maid when she was born, and I’ve always been sloppy, promiscuous, and profane. I don’t recommend my life-style; it has certain shortcomings. But when I compare my life with Sylvia’s…”
She shook her head. Her smile had faded; she looked sad, rather like a shabby old lion, with her mane of rusty hair and her long jowls. Meg felt a surge of liking for Georgia, who could pity a woman who had all the worldly luxuries.
“I wish I could say Sylvia has spoken of you,” she said. Georgia’s candor was contagious. “But she hardly ever mentions her friends.”
“She doesn’t have friends—except me. Only business acquaintances.”
“Do you know her stepson?”
“Andy? Sure. I visited Sylvia here when she was married to—what was the poor devil’s name? Never could remember it. Never could remember what he looked like five minutes after I’d left him. Nice guy, though. He was always nice to me. It was when I was visiting Sylvia that I fell in love with the town and decided to open a shop. I was here for a couple of years before what’s-his-name died and Sylvia went looking for the next victim. Haven’t seen much of her since, but we exchange Christmas cards.”
Meg had found that she could get out a complete sentence, before Georgia interrupted, if she kept it short.
“Wasn’t she here recently?”
“Yep. She came down to evict the bloody painter and his girl friend. I wrote her about him a couple of months ago. Never did approve of Sylvia’s letting the house to ne’er-do-well bums, but most of ‘em were harmless enough. Not this guy, though. The little bastard was selling off Sylvia’s antiques. Had the gall to come here with what he thought was a Windsor chair. I played it cool. Told him it was a late-nineteenth-century copy—which it was—and then wrote Syl. She was down here like a shot; she never can stand being taken for a sucker. She stopped in for a drink—pardon me, a cup of tea—and told me about you. I’ve been meaning to call you, but never got
around to it. You know how it is.”
“Yes,” Meg said, slightly dazed. “I know how—”
“Culver’s still around,” Georgia said. “Give you any trouble?”
“Not really. I met him—”
“Oh, sure, the whole town knows about that. Town knows all about everything, honey; keep that in mind in case you have any low-down schemes in mind. You and Andy sleeping together? Oh, come on, you don’t have to look so indignant; you might as well have the game as the name, the whole damn town assumes you’re shacking up. They don’t mind. Young Andy seems to be pretty popular. Don’t know why.”
“I’m not that crazy about him myself. And contrary to what this town may think of city slickers, I’m not in the habit of popping into bed with any man who happens to be—”
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