“Stop, stop, in the name of God, stop!” Mark stood in the doorway, screaming the forbidden name and wincing with the pain of it. Yet he cried out the command a second time, and Swithin became aware of a diminishing of the music.
“Begone, damned spirits, begone,” Mark intoned. “In the name of God!” He coughed and blood gushed forth from his bleeding mouth.
Hoyt’s arms fell away from Swithin. The music, the laughter, the shrieks of the women stopped.
There was dead silence in the room.
Swithin, shaking, looked around and blinked, not sure that he was seeing aright. Blinking did not help. The room was a shambles. The table was overturned. Amazingly, all the chairs were piled one on top of the other, and as he looked at them, they all came crashing down. The floor was covered with garments tossed helter-skelter, wherever their maddened wearers had tossed them. His gaze did not linger long on the floor, as he looked at the once dignified men and women who had entered this chamber a short time ago. They were a pitiable sight, their eyes wide in shame and horror, their bodies stripped naked, wet with sweat and, in some cases, bruised and bleeding.
Glancing at Eliza, Swithin shuddered as he saw blood running down the insides of her legs. As she met his gaze, she quivered all over, and sinking down, she put her hands around her knees, hugging them against her. Beside her, Stephen Hawley also sank down, his face white, his eyes filled with shame. Arthur Seymour, rolling off of Herman Riner, was also weeping. Looking down, Swithin gasped as he saw Lucy lying naked on the floor. He reached for his jacket to cover her and stopped, remembering that he, too, was naked. Confusion filled him. What had happened? How had it happened? He wished devoutly that he could not remember the madness that had invaded them all—but he could, in every last detail!
Suddenly the room was full of cries, screams and bellows, as those present pawed madly through the piles of discarded clothing, searching for their own garments, ignoring crinolines and pantaloons, climbing into such garments as must cover them easily and hastily. Swithin, kneeling beside Lucy, found her confused and terrified.
“What happened?” she moaned, as he helped her to dress.
“I am not sure, my love.”
He was to repeat that statement many times during the next half-hour as he tried to give a lucid answer to those who accused, babbled and screamed impotent threats at them.
Finally Mark took over, and in a rough, snarling tone that Swithin had never heard for him, he said, “We are sorry for what has happened here, but given your august reputations, we fell that it is best you keep this matter to yourselves.”
“You ought to be... to be...” Words failed Mrs. Osbourne, who was bent over double, clutching her gown about her as if she still felt herself to be the naked cynosure of all eyes.
Other malefic mutterings accompanied her unspoken threat, some erupting into accusations against Lucy, who stood trembling in her husband’s arm.
“If you do not want any of this to leak out, I suggest you hold your tongue, the lot of you,” Mark advised sharply. “We have no control over those we summon at a séance. I imagine this is not the first time such a thing has taken place, nor will it be the last. As experimenters and reseachers into the occult, you know that you are dealing with unknown and inexplicable forces.”
“With demons,” Dolly Tate mumbled, weeping.
“That is not unlikely,” Mark responded. “And I wish to tell you that the medium is no more responsible for them than you or I. It is dangerous to tamper with the unknown, but all of you are aware of that, too.”
“He’s right,” croaked old Gillette. “Let this occurrence remain a secret, a... gentleman’s agreement among us.” After an amazingly brief period of bickering the group, including Stephen Hawley, declared itself in sympathy with Gillette. No one spoke as they gathered their things together and hurried out, going off in as many different directions as there were people.
A moment after the room was cleared, Lucy, who had been very quiet, whispered, “Swithin, I do feel so very strange.” Suddenly, she was a dead weight in his arms. Paling, he carried her up to bed. A shuddering breath escaped him as he saw how white and drained she looked, as if the blood had gone from her body. He did not need Mark to tell him that she had been felled by a great infusion of negative energy, but unfortunately it was nothing he could explain to the hastily summoned physician. There was a moment when he feared she would lose her baby, but against all odds she did not. However the physician left strict orders that she must remain in bed during the next six months.
“Else I’ll not be responsible for either her safety or that of your child,” he finished with a stern look at Swithin, as if he held him personally responsible for what had happened to his wife.
“I understand, sir,” Swithin said in a low voice. But as he sat at Lucy’s bedside, he did not understand at all what had happened or why. It was his wife who eventually enlightened him later that same evening.
“It’s the curse, my love,” she said weakly. “’Twas Erlina Bell, remember?”
He did remember and wondered why he had not remembered at a time when it would have done some good, when he might have awakened Lucy and halted the séance. Was that the curse as well? He did not want to think of the séance or of his own actions and those of that exalted group of scholars and community leaders. Unfortunately it was not that easy to banish the episode from his mind. It had left him full of fears, not only for his wife but for all those who had participated. In common with himself, he was regretfully sure that they remembered what had happened in all its obscene and revolting detail. That in itself was a curse, and was it mere madness to fear that the curse had affected them all? It was equally mad, he realized, to believe in its existence.
Yet he did believe, and he scanned the papers every day during the week following the séance, fearing that Stephen Hawley might have yielded to the promptings of his pen. No word appeared, but he did learn that Arthur Seymour had inexplicably resigned from his post at Patrick Henry High School and at last report was bound for Paris. Herman Riner, that well-known psychologist, had closed his office and was also going aboard—destination unknown. Mrs. Launcelot Osbourne had withdrawn from all her committees, and rumor had it that she had been taken to a sanitarium, suffering from a mild nervous breakdown. Dolly Tate, amazingly enough, was marrying Ward Beauchamp, and they were going to Tahiti as missionaries. Samuel Gillette astonished his colleagues at Harvard by his abrupt retirement, and James Mitchell had announced that he was leaving his lucrative Boston practice for the poorly paid position of doctor in a Pennsylvania mining town. His pronouncement that he owed it to his soul made no sense to anyone save, perhaps, those who had attended the séance. Thornton Brace had also quit Boston for parts unknown. Eliza Bishop, Swithin heard from his mother, was engaged to Stephen Hawley; they would be married immediately.
He heard the news with regret. He could not imagine stately Eliza being wed to the diminutive reporter. However, upon a vision rising in his mind’s eye, he guessed that they could not conclude their nuptials soon enough!
In the next few weeks Swithin realized that if none of the participants had discussed their experiences at what could be termed a history-making séance, there were rumors. These, he guessed, were generated by the servants of those who had attended. Crowds of the curious began to congregate around the house and some people had the temerity to pound on the door and demand to see the medium.
At last, Swithin could bring his bride home. His mother, shut in her rooms, did not protest. She, at least, had not heard the rumors and could not help being excited at the prospect of a grandchild. Mark stayed in the house near the cemetery, tended by Colin and Juliet when the madness was upon him. The Old Lord remained with them. Swithin could not bemoan the loss of his in-laws. In fact, if Lucy had been feeling better, his cup would have been full and running over. As it was, his joy was present but circumscribed. However, he was sure that when the child was born, all would be well.
&
nbsp; ❖
As Lucy’s time drew near, it was obvious to Colin and Juliet that she was losing strength, even though she was cheerful, happy and full of plans for the time when she would finally be allowed to leave her bed. She blamed her weakness on the pending birth of her child. Fortunately Molly did not disturb her with her wailing. She and Grimalkin much preferred the reassuring vista of the graveyard and stubbornly remained upon the roof of the adjacent house. It was there that Juliet sought them one night, a few days before Lucy’s child was due. She had detected a different note in the banshee’s howl. Flying up as a bat, she startled both Molly and the cat with her hasty transformation.
“Ach, Miss Juliet, ’tis a sad thing to see you,” mourned the banshee.
“Never mind that.” Juliet propped herself against one of the chimneys stacks. “I’m used to it,” she said, shrugging. “I heard a new note in your caterwauling that sounds even more ominous than usual. What more can happen to us?”
“Ach, ’tis the poor little one.” She unleashed a lugubrious sigh.
“Which?” Juliet asked but knew the answer. “Lucy?”
“Aye, little Lucy.”
Colin, gliding to the roof, changed and asked gruffly, “When?”
“’Twill be three days after her child is born.”
“Ohhhh,” Juliet moaned. “Why?”
“Because she be frail as a mayfly. ’Twas that Erlina Bell done for her apurpose. ’Twasn’t to be expected she’d escape the curse. Now be off wi’ ye. I must get on wi’ me song.” The banshee resumed her howling.
They moved away. “Oh, Colin,” Juliet mourned. “We cannot let her go, nor our Lucy.”
“We cannot help her,” he said quickly.
“We can.” Juliet put her little hand upon his arm. “You know we can,” she said tensely.
“We’ll... talk about it.” There was reluctance but possible acquiescence as well as he changed quickly and flew from the roof, followed by Juliet. An even more ominous wail broke from the banshee coupled with a piercing screech from Grimalkin, which neither sister nor brother heard—nor would they have heeded the warning if they had.
❖
Lucy awakened, feeling marvelously fit. She also felt considerably lighter. Much as she had longed for the birth of her child, her daughter Olivia, she had been tremendously heavy and weary at the last.
In spite of all her resting, it had not been an easy birth. She could still hear the doctor’s gentle urging, “Push, push, push...” She had obeyed to the best of her ability, but it had been so hard that she felt as if she had been torn in half. Later, seeing the darling little red-faced baby with the dark swirl of hair which was the very same shade as Swithin’s, she knew it had been worth every tedious second of the last six months, only she did wish that Swithin had looked happier.
He should have been happy, being the father of such a darling, but perhaps he had wanted a son. She had taxed him with that only to have him weep and say that he wanted exactly what she had given him—a daughter. He had agreed with a sob that he, too, liked the name Olivia, which she had culled from a favorite Shakespearean play. “Look you, sir, such a one as I, is it not well done...” she had quoted softly from Twelfth Night, Olivia’s speech, only to have Swithin burst into even louder sobs. She had never seen him weep and it frightened her, especially as she felt so strange and weak.
“Am I going to die?” she remembered asking him, only to have him turn away, his shoulders shaking, corroborating her fears.
“You’re not going to die, darling.” Eliza had been there, too, looking pale. She was into her sixth month of pregnancy and married to Stephen Hawley, a poor exchange for Swithin, Lucy thought. It did seem as if she would die; she had been feeling so weak, especially at night. She had dreamed a great deal about Juliet and Colin, wondering why they had not come to see her. Last night she had dreamed that Colin had kissed and kissed her, but she would never confide that dream to Swithin. He would think she cherished some sort of secret passion for her uncle. Actually, much as she loved Juliet and Colin, she had always been a little revolted by their condition, especially since neither seemed in the least disturbed by what they had to do. She knew they had been once, but now they actually seemed to revel in it. They didn’t even miss the sunlight!
“The moon is so beautifully bright,” Juliet had confided once.
Lucy glanced toward her window but saw only darkness. It must be the dark of the moon, yet she could have sworn it was full when she drifted off to sleep last night. That was why Mark hadn’t been to see her. Poor Mark! The last time he visited her he had looked so pale and miserable, all his bright coloring dimmed and his eyes like two burnt holes in a blanket, worrying over her, she guessed. But no one had to worry any more. She was better, much better. She could hardly wait until morning came and she could see Swithin. He wasn’t sleeping with her now. They had been apart for six months, but now he would be able to come back to her bed and make love to her. She thrilled to the thought, and then she tensed, hearing a sound, a cry, a baby—her baby? No, it was an animal, a rabbit, she didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. It had been caught by an owl, poor thing. The owl would devour it, drinking the blood.
A thirst grew in her, and she needed water or tea to quell it. Her throat was dry, so very dry. Had not Swithin left the pitcher near the bed?
She put out her hand and felt softness above her. The quilt? She tried to push it away and felt hardness now. She cried out in fear and then the hardness was gone.
“She’s awake,” someone said.
It was still dark, but looking up Lucy had no trouble seeing Juliet and Colin. “I need water!” she groaned.
“Water, so soon?” Juliet said inexplicably.
“Soon?” Lucy did not understand.
“Are you thirsty, love?” Colin asked ruefully.
“I am,” she responded crossly. “Is there not a pitcher? I do not expect I should get out of bed, but I do feel much stronger.”
“Do you, dearest?” Juliet asked.
“Yes, but I am so thirsty,” Lucy complained wondering why they were not giving her the water she craved so desperately.
“It did not happen to me... so soon,” Juliet muttered. “Nor me, but circumstances alter cases,” Colin responded. With rising indignation, Lucy said, “Please, I beg you’ll not stand there talking when I am so thirsty. I need a drink!” She knew she was acting badly, but she could not help it, listening to them nattering away when she was so much in need of water.
“We know, child,” Juliet said. “Come.” She pulled Lucy to her feet.
Lucy felt most peculiar, as if she had passed through something yielding that should not have been yielding. She had glimpsed the solidness of a door and a second later had been outside of it—without its opening! That had to be a dream! But she was outside. Grass was tickling her bare feet, and there were trees around her. Looking up, she was nearly blinded by the mere sliver of a new moon.
“How did I get outside?” She stared about her and saw great carved monuments white in the moonlight. “Why am I here?” she whispered on a rising note of panic.
“Lucy...” Colin began.
“Dearest,” Juliet chimed in.
Lucy swallowed, trying vainly to vanquish that terrible thirst. Looking at her companions, she suddenly knew why she was there and knew what they had done. A terrible despair engulfed her.
“Why?” she cried accusingly. “Why, why, why did you do it?”
“My love.” Juliet put her arm around Lucy’s shaking shoulders and looked into her tearless eyes. “We could not bear to let you go.”
“So you... so both of you...” She could not finish the sentence but knew the reason for her weakness of the last nights and knew that they knew she knew.
“Swithin!” she wailed. “My child... my child.” But in her new agony, she could not think of them any longer because she was so thirsty.
Later, when the radiance of the moon had dimmed and when Lucy had sa
dly and regretfully drunk the warm blood of a rabbit, hating the way it made her feel, full of life and well, she stared at her relations—resenting them, even hating them!
They understood.
“Dearest,” Juliet said, “I know we shouldn’t have done it.”
“I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it.” Colin regarded Juliet ruefully.
“No, no, no, you shouldn’t have done it!” Lucy agreed despairingly.
“But think,” Juliet urged. “You’ll be able to visit Swithin and Li via.”
“Livia? Her name’s Olivia.”
“They will call your daughter Livia, my dear.”
“Ohhhh,” Lucy wailed blinking against the tears that did not, would never come. “No, I’ll not see them, not like this. Oh, I am accursed.” The truth of her cry came home to her. “The curse?” she whispered.
“Yes, yes, it must have been,” Juliet cried, almost in relief.
“It must have been,” he agreed.
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