by John Saul
“Does Sarah know about the secret place?” Kathy said suddenly.
Elizabeth shook her head. “And you won’t either, if you don’t stop asking questions about it. It’s a place you have to be. You can’t talk about it.”
“Will you show me?” Kathy asked defiantly.
“If you stop talking about it,” Elizabeth countered. “It’s a very special place, just for me. But I suppose I could take you there, since you’re a friend of mine.”
“When?”
But Elizabeth didn’t answer. Instead, she gave her friend a mysterious look, then disappeared into the school.
Mrs. Goodrich spent nearly an hour in the attic, only part of it looking for Cecil. A quick inspection convinced her that the cat was not there, and she was about to go back downstairs when something caught her eye. She wasn’t sure what it was—something out of place, or something missing, or something there that shouldn’t have been there. She paused and looked around. For a long time she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. It was more a feeling than anything tangible. As if someone had been here and moved things around, then returned them to their original places. Except that there was still an air in the attic. An air of having been disturbed.
The old woman began looking around more carefully, realizing as she did that the attic was as much the storehouse of her memories as it was the repository of the Conger family’s castoffs. All the things that Congers had used and forgotten about were scattered around the attic—things that they had forgotten about but that Mrs. Goodrich had not. Her hand caressed the cradle that had been used for so many Conger babies—Sarah most recently, but Elizabeth before her, and their father before them. She wondered how many generations of Conger babies had slept in that cradle. And then she noticed that the intricate hand carving contained not a particle of dust. That was what had struck her about the attic: no dust. Everything that should have been covered with dust was clean.
She spent the next hour in the attic, looking for the dirt that should have been there. But it was not there, nor was Cecil.
Early in the afternoon she decided that, wherever the cat was, he was not in the house.
He’ll come back, she thought. When he’s a mind to.
9
“Are you sorry yet?”
Rose asked the question as she peered over the edge of her highball glass at Barbara Stevens. She had been right; she did like the Stevenses, and was looking forward to several years of happy neighborliness. Opposite her, sitting next to Carl, Barbara stared right back at her.
“Sorry?” she said. “Sorry we bought the house?”
“Well,” Rose said, her eyes wandering through the ugly square living room, now filled with packed boxes and disarranged furniture, “I told you it was a mess. And it sure is.”
Barbara laughed, and the sound seemed to make the room less ugly. “It isn’t all that bad. There are lots of possibilities.” Rose was sure she heard a touch of uncertainty in the words.
“Name one.” It was a challenge.
“Carl has dozens,” Barbara said, neatly avoiding the hook. “I’ll take over after the remodeling is done.”
“In other words,” Carl put in, “never. Barbara is thoroughly convinced that ‘remodeling’ includes paint, paper, and, if she can persuade me, new furniture. Then, when it’s all finished, she comes out of her studio, looks around, and says, ‘My, we have done wonders with this place, haven’t we?’ ”
“Now, it’s not that bad at all,” Barbara protested. “Besides, you know damned well that you think an architect should have full control of everything that goes into a building, from the day the ground is broken until the day the building is torn down.” She turned her attention to Rose and winked. “He even has stipulations in his contracts to carry his instructions forth unto the fourth generation. The sins of the fathers may not be visited on the sons, but they’re sure going to have to live with them.”
“Enough,” Carl said, standing up and brandishing a bottle that the three of them had half killed. “Any more, anybody, or shall we call it a day?”
Rose glanced at her watch, and it struck her that she had spent a lot more time here than she had intended. But it had been fun, and she’d found out a lot more about the old house than she had ever known. The three of them had spent most of the day exploring it from top to bottom, and the Stevenses were now well acquainted with the Barneses’ lighting system, which had allowed some rooms to be lit only from other rooms. Some rooms, which Rose explained had been the children’s, were without any switches at all, and the three of them had speculated that the Barneses had actually and literally kept some of their children in the dark on occasion. The day had gone fast, and it was close to four. Rose stood up.
“There’s one more thing I should show you,” she said pensively, “and I’d like to do it this afternoon.”
Carl’s brows rose curiously. “Sounds important.”
“It may be, and it may not be. You’ll know better than I, since I haven’t met Jeff yet.”
“Jeff?” Barbara echoed, now totally mystified. “What does he have to do with it?”
“Nothing, I hope,” Rose said. “That’s why I’d like to tell you about it now, before he gets here. Come on.”
She led Carl and Barbara out of the house on the ocean side. There was a path leading along the cliff to the south, and it was along this path that Rose took the Stevenses.
“There should be primroses,” Carl remarked. Barbara smiled at him appreciatively, but Rose appeared not to have heard the remark. She strode forward, and they walked for about a hundred feet before she stopped.
“There,” she said, pointing.
Carl and Barbara stared out to sea, their eyes sweeping the horizon. The ocean was clear of boats and ships, an expanse of gray-green water broken only by the horizon and Conger’s Point jutting out to sea another hundred yards south of them.
“It’s beautiful,” Barbara said. “But I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“The Point,” Rose said. “From here you have a good view of the north face of it The woods at the top are really a pretty shallow stand. On the other side of the woods is our field, and, of course, on the other side of the field is our house. If it weren’t for the woods, you’d have a straight shot at the house.”
“So?” Carl said, still clearly baffled as to what Rose was getting at.
“It’s the embankment,” Rose said. “I think you ought to know about it. It’s very steep, and it can be treacherous, particularly when the wind blows from the north. The sea can get wild out there, and the spray turns the face of the embankment into glass. There have been some accidents …” Her voice trailed off; then, catching the worried look in Barbara’s eyes, she went on. “Oh, not for a long time,” she said. “Not in this century, as far as we know. We’ve always been very careful about it, and the children are not allowed to go anywhere near it. In the Conger family, for generations children haven’t been allowed to play either in the woods or on the embankment Not only is it dangerous, but it’s practically invisible. You can’t see the face of the embankment from any point on our property, and only from a couple of spots over here. From your house it’s totally out of sight All you can see is the forest.”
“Why haven’t you cut the forest down?” Barbara said thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be as pretty, but at least you’d be able to see if any of the kids are playing along the top.”
Rose smiled tightly. “I suggested it once. Part of it, of course, is the esthetics. Also, there’s the wind. The woods protect the house pretty well when the wind is from the north. Which it is, during the winter. And, of course, the privacy thing. The Congers always liked the idea that none of their neighbors could see them.”
“It’s nice to be able to afford that sort of luxury,” Carl murmured.
Rose nodded. “Very nice. If you can afford it, which we barely can. A couple of more tax hikes and we won’t be able to afford it at all.” She realized she was s
aying more than she probably ought, then realized that she didn’t really care; in fact, it was nice to be able to admit to someone, anyone, that the Congers weren’t what they used to be. Still, she decided it was time to get back to the subject at hand.
“So that’s what I wanted to show you,” she said. “Of course, you can do what you want, but I’d advise you to tell Jeff not to go anywhere near the place.”
“Which would send him there directly, the minute our backs were turned,” Barbara said. “I think we’ll just have to trust to his good sense.” She noted the expression on Rose’s face, and her smile faded. “Is there something else?” she asked.
Rose hesitated a minute, then spoke again. “Yes,” she said, glancing once more at her watch. “I don’t have time to go into it all, but there’s a legend about the embankment. There may be a cave there, and it’s really quite dangerous.” Rose smiled uncertainly. “I’ve got to be getting home. Both the girls will be there, and I don’t like to leave them for long with nobody but Mrs. Goodrich.”
“Mrs. Goodrich?”
“The housekeeper. She’s getting older—she must be nearly seventy—and terribly set in her ways, but she’s been with the family since long before Jack was born.”
They chatted a little more on the way back to the Stevenses’ new house, but Rose didn’t go in again. She felt a sudden urge to get home.
Minutes later, she was striding along the Point Road, skirting the west end of the strip of woods. She saw a squirrel playing in one of the trees, something she normally would have taken a few minutes to enjoy, but she didn’t give it a second glance. She passed the woods, and was walking along the edge of the field. Suddenly she stopped. Coming out of the woods, about one hundred and fifty yards from Rose, was Elizabeth. A couple of seconds later, Sarah, too, emerged from the woods. Rose felt her stomach tighten as she watched her children cross the field toward home. She didn’t call out to them; indeed, she didn’t even move until she saw them disappear into the house. Then, when they were no longer visible, she continued on her way. But her pace was slow, and her mind was filled with thoughts. None of them made any sense. All of them were foreboding.
When she got home, she didn’t call out a greeting. Instead, she went directly to the small study at the rear of the house, poured herself a drink, and sat in the wing chair. As she waited for her husband to come home, she studied the old portrait above the mantel. It did look like Elizabeth.
So much like Elizabeth.
She sipped the drink, stared at the picture and waited.
She was still in the wing chair an hour later, when Jack came home. She heard his voice calling out as he opened the front door, heard the answer come from Elizabeth upstairs. Rose remained silent, and listened to his footsteps approach the study. She was watching the door when he came through. His eyes widened in surprise; then he grinned at her.
“Are we doing a role reversal? I’m the one who’s supposed to sit brooding in the chair with a drink in my fist.” His smile faded as he watched his wife’s face. “Is something wrong?” he asked, and Rose was pleased to hear a concern that sounded genuine.
“Fix yourself a drink and sit down,” she said. “And you might as well fix this one up. The ice has melted.”
He took her glass, refilled it, and poured himself a neat Scotch. Setting Rose’s drink on the table at her elbow, he seated himself opposite her.
“So what’s up? Sarah?”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure, really.” She recounted her day, skipping over most of it until she reached the end. She went over her final conversation with the Stevenses in detail, trying to remember exactly what she had told them. When she finished, he didn’t seem particularly disturbed.
“Then what has you so upset?” he asked.
“On my way home, I saw the girls coming out of the woods. First Elizabeth, then Sarah.”
“I see,” Jack said quietly. “And you want me to talk to them?”
“Not both of them. Just Elizabeth. I don’t care what you tell her, but convince her to stay away from there.”
“Shall I tell her about the legend?”
“If you want.”
“Well, Lord knows, if that won’t do it nothing will. That legend has kept four generations of Congers away from that embankment.”
“Four?” Rose said. “That many?”
“I think so,” Jack said. He counted briefly on his fingers. “Nope. I’m the third. If it works, Elizabeth and Sarah will be the fourth. Well, no time like the present.” He finished his drink and left the room.
Alone, Rose continued sipping from her glass and staring at the portrait. For some reason, Carl Stevens’s words echoed in her mind. “The sins of the fathers …”
Then she remembered the rest of the quotation, and she shuddered: “… even unto the third and fourth generations.”
Jack climbed the stairs slowly, wondering what he would tell his daughter. At the top he paused and squared his shoulders. The truth, he guessed. Or at least what the Congers had thought was some sort of truth, among themselves, for more years than he knew.
He found them in the playroom. A frown creased his brow as he saw what they were doing. Between them was the Ouija board, and Elizabeth seemed to be concentrating on it. Sarah was concentrating on Elizabeth. Jack cleared his throat, and when nothing happened he spoke.
“Elizabeth,” he said, and regretted the sharp sound that filled the room. His daughters jumped a little, and Elizabeth opened her eyes.
“Daddy! Did you come up to play with us?”
“I came up to talk to you. Alone.” His eyes shifted to Sarah on the last word, and Elizabeth picked up on the message. She stood up, then leaned over to whisper into her sister’s ear. Sarah, to Jack’s eye, did not respond, but Elizabeth seemed to be satisfied that Sarah would be all right by herself. She followed him as he led her out of the playroom and into her own room. When she was inside he closed the door, and Elizabeth knew that she had done something wrong. She sat on the edge of her bed and regarded her father respectfully.
“It’s the woods, isn’t it?” she said.
Her father looked at her sternly. “Yes,” he said, “it is. Unless I’m badly mistaken, it was only yesterday that we had a talk about that. Now I understand you were in the woods today. With Sarah.”
Elizabeth looked straight into his eyes, and he tried to find a clue in her own as to her mood. He wondered if she would be defiant, or angry, or stubborn. But he saw only curiosity.
“I know,” she said. “I don’t really know why I took Sarah to the woods today. We were in the field, playing, and then we were in the woods. I must have been thinking about something else, because I honestly don’t remember going into the woods. The only thing I remember is suddenly realizing we were in the woods, and leading Sarah back out to the field.”
Jack listened to his daughter silently, trying to decide if she was being truthful. He remembered his own youth, and all the times he had become so engrossed in something that he had lost track of his surroundings. He supposed it could have happened.
“Well,” he said, “I expect you not to let it happen again. You’re a big girl now, and you should be able to keep your mind on what you’re doing. Or at least where you are, particularly when Sarah is with you.”
“I take good care of her,” Elizabeth said, and Jack thought he heard a defensive note in her voice.
“Of course you do,” he said soothingly. “But please take good care of her only on this side of those woods.” Now he definitely saw anger in Elizabeth’s face. The beautiful features hardened slightly, and he realized he was going to have to amplify. While she posed the question, he tried to figure out where to begin his answer.
“I want to know why,” she was saying. “I think it’s getting absolutely silly. I’m old enough to go where I want to go, at least on our own property. When I was little, it was one thing. But I’m not little any more. You said so yourself,” she finished.
�
�You’re going to think we’re all crazy,” Jack said.
“Are we?” Elizabeth asked, but there was no twinkle in her eye.
“Who knows?” Jack replied, keeping his tone light.
“Okay, I’ll tell you the story. There’s an old family legend.”
“I know,” Elizabeth said.
“You know?” Now Jack couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice. “How?”
Elizabeth widened her eyes and tried to look spooky. “The Ouija board,” she intoned. “It knows all and it tells all.” Then she burst into laughter at the expression on her father’s face. It was a mixture of awe, surprise, and fright. “I’m kidding, Dad,” she said. “I don’t know what it’s all about.” She thought carefully, then went on. “In fact, I don’t really know what I know and what I don’t know, or where I found out. But I know there’s some kind of story and it goes back a long way. What is it?”
Jack felt a strange sense of relief that she did not know the legend, and he began to tell it to her.
“It does go back a long way, he said.” Your mother and I were just figuring it out, and it’s four generations, counting you and Sarah. It has to do with your great-great-grandmother. It all happened somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred years ago, and she was already an old, old lady then. I don’t know how many of the details I can remember, since I don’t think anybody ever wrote the story down, but here’s what is supposed to have happened:
“The old woman—I think her name was Bernice or Bertha, something like that—was in the habit of taking a nap every day after dinner, which was what we’d call lunch nowadays. Apparently every day she’d go upstairs and sleep for an hour, then come back down, and that was that. Except that one day she didn’t come back down.”
“You mean she died?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, Jack said.” She didn’t die. When she didn’t come down from her nap, they went upstairs, I imagine expecting to find her dead, but she wasn’t. She was still asleep.
“To make a long story short, the legend has it that she slept for two days and two nights, solid. They tried to wake her up, and couldn’t. They called a doctor, but he couldn’t find anything wrong with her at all. I suppose she might have had some kind of stroke and gone into a coma, but at the time they didn’t know much about such things. Anyway, she eventually woke up, and she didn’t seem to have anything wrong with her.