Haunts

by Stephen Jones

  “Wind shrieked a howling toscin as John Chance slewed his Duesenberg Torpedo down the streaming mountain road. A sudden burst of lightning picked out the sinister silhouette of legend-haunted Corrington Manor, hunched starkly against the storm-swept Adirondacks. John Chance’s square jaw was grim-set as he scowled at the Georgian mansion just ahead. Why had lovely Gayle Corrington’s hysterical phone call been broken off in the midst of her plea for help? Could even John Chance thwart the horror of the Corrington Curse from striking terror on the eve of Gayle and young Hartley’s wedding?”

  “Humph,” was the sour comment of Curtiss Stryker, who four decades previous had thrilled thousands of pulp readers with his yarns of John Chance, psychic detective. He stretched his bony legs from the cramped interior of his friend’s brand-new Jensen Interceptor and stood scowling through the blacktop’s heat.

  “Well, seems like that’s the way a haunted house ought to be approached,” Mandarin went on, joining him on the sticky asphalt driveway.

  Stryker twitched a grin. Sixty years had left his tall, spare frame gristled and knobby, like an old pine on a rocky slope. His face was tanned and seamed, setting off the bristling white mustache and close-cut hair that had once been blond. Mandarin always thought he looked like an old sea captain—and recalled that Stryker had sailed on a Norwegian whaler in his youth.

  “Yeah, and here comes the snarling mastiff,” Stryker obliged him.

  A curious border collie peered out from around the Corvette in the carport, wondered if it ought to bark. Russ whistled, and the dog wagged over to be petted.

  The yard was just mowed, and someone had put a lot of care into the rose beds that bordered the flagstone walk. That and the pine woods gave the place a cool, inviting atmosphere—more like a mountain cabin than a house only minutes outside Knoxville’s sooty reach. The house had an expensive feel about it. Someone had hired an architect—and a good one—to do the design. Mountain stone and untreated redwood on the outside walls; cedar shakes on the roof; copper flashings; long areas of glass. Its split-level design, adapted to the gentle hillside, seemed to curl around the grey outcroppings of limestone.

  “Nice place to haunt,” Mandarin reflected.

  “I hope you’re going to keep a straight face once we get inside,” his friend admonished gruffly. “Mrs. Corrington was a little reluctant to have us come here at all. Doesn’t want folks laughing, calling her a kook. People from all over descending on her to investigate her haunted house. You know what it’d be like.”

  “I’ll maintain my best professional decorum.”

  Stryker grunted. He could trust Russ, or he wouldn’t have invited him along. A psychiatrist at least knew how to listen, ask questions without making his informant shut up in embarrassment. And Russ’s opinion of Gayle Corrington’s emotional stability would be valuable—-Stryker had wasted too many interviews with cranks and would-be psychics whose hauntings derived from their own troubled minds. Besides, he knew Mandarin was interested in this sort of thing and would welcome a diversion from his own difficulties.

  “Well, let’s go inside before we boil over,” Stryker decided.

  Russ straightened from petting the dog, carelessly wiped his long-fingered hands on his lightweight sport coat. About half the writer’s age, he was shorter by a couple inches, heavier by forty pounds. He wore his bright-black hair fashionably long for the time, and occasionally trimmed his long mustache. Piercing blue eyes beneath a prominent brow dominated his thin face. Movie-minded patients had told him variously that he reminded them of Terence Stamp or Bruce Dern, and Russ asked them how they felt about that.

  On the flagstone walk the heady scent of warm roses washed out the taint of the asphalt. Russ thought he heard the murmur of a heat pump around back. It would be cool inside, then—earlier he had envied Stryker for his open-collar sport shirt.

  The paneled door had a bell push, but Stryker crisply struck the brass knocker. The door quickly swung open, and Russ guessed their hostess had been politely waiting for their knock.

  Cool air and a faint perfume swirled from within. “Please come in,” Mrs. Corrington invited.

  She was blond and freckled, had stayed away from the sun enough so that her skin still looked fresh at the shadow of forty. Enough of her figure was displayed by the backless hostess ensemble she wore to prove she had taken care of herself in other respects as well. It made both men remember that she was divorced.

  “Mrs. Corrington? I’m Curtiss Stryker.”

  “Please call me Gayle. I’ve read enough of your books to feel like an old friend.”

  Stryker beamed and bent low over her hand in the continental mannerisms Russ always wished he was old enough to pull off. “Then make it Curt, Gayle. And this is Dr. Mandarin.”

  “Russ,” said Mandarin, shaking her hand.

  “Dr. Mandarin is interested in this sort of thing, too,” Stryker explained. “I wanted him to come along so a man of science could add his thoughts to what you have to tell us.”

  “Oh, are you with the University Center here, Dr. Mandarin?”

  “Please—Russ. No, not any longer.” He kept the bitterness from his voice. “I’m in private practice in the University area.”

  “Your practice is …?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist.”

  Her green eyes widened, then grew wary—the usual response—but she recovered easily. “Can I fix something for you gentlemen? Or is it too early in the afternoon for drinks? I’ve got iced tea.”

  “Sun’s past the yardarm,” Stryker told her quickly. “Gin and tonic for me.”

  “Scotch for you, Russ?” she asked.

  “Bourbon and ice, if you have it.”

  “Well, you must be a southern psychiatrist.”

  “Russ is from way out west,” Stryker filled in smoothly. “But he’s lived around here a good long while. I met him when he was doing an internship at the Center here, and I had an appendix that had waited fifty years to go bad. Found out he was an old fan—even had a bunch of my old pulp yarns on his shelves alongside my later books. Showed me a fan letter one magazine had published: he’d written it when he was about twelve, asking that they print more of my John Chance stories. Kept tabs on each other ever since.”

  She handed them their drinks, poured a bourbon and ginger ale for herself.

  “Well, of course I’ve only read your serious stuff. The mysteries you’ve had in paperback, and the two books on the occult.”

  “Do you like to read up on the occult?” Russ asked, mentally correcting her—three books on the occult.

  “Well, I never have… you know… believed in ghosts and like that. But when all this started, I began to wonder—so I checked out a few books. I’d always liked Mr. Stryker’s mystery novels, so I was especially interested to read what he had to say on the subject of hauntings. Then, when I found out that he was a local author, and that he was looking for material for a new book—well, I got up my courage and wrote to him. I hope you didn’t think I was some sort of nut.”

  “Not at all!” Stryker assured her. “But suppose we sit down and have you tell us about it. From your letter and our conversation on the phone, I gather this is mostly poltergeist-like phenomena.”

  Gayle Corrington’s flair-legged gown brushed against the varnished hardwood floor as she led them to her living room. A stone fireplace with a raised hearth of used brick made up one wall. Odd bits of antique ironware were arranged along the hearth; above the mantelpiece hung an engraved double-barreled shotgun. Walnut paneling enclosed the remainder of the room—paneling, not plywood, Russ noted. Chairs and a sofa were arranged informally about the Couristan carpet. Russ dropped onto a cream leather couch and looked for a place to set his drink.

  Stryker was digging a handful of salted nuts from the wooden bowl on the low table beside his chair. “Suppose you start with the history of the house?” he suggested.

  Sipping nervously from her glass, Gayle settled cross-legged next to the hearth.
Opposite her, a large area of sliding glass panels opened onto the sun-bright backyard. A multitude of birds and two fat squirrels worked at the feeders positioned beneath the pines. The dogs sat on the patio expectantly, staring back at them through the glass door.

  Gayle drew up her freckled shoulders and began. “Well, the house was put up about ten years back by two career girls.”

  “Must have had some money,” Russ interposed.

  “They were sort of in your line of work—they were medical secretaries at the psychiatric unit. And they had, well, a relationship together.”

  “How do you mean that?” Stryker asked, opening his notepad.

  Mrs. Corrington blushed. “They were lesbians.”

  This was heavy going for a southern belle, and she glanced at their composed expressions, then continued. “So they built this place under peculiar conditions—sort of man and wife, if you follow. No legal agreement as to what belonged to whom. That became important afterward.

  “Listen, this is, well, personal information. Will it be okay for me to use just first names?”

  “I promise you this will be completely confidential,” Stryker told her gravely.

  “I was worried about your using this in your new book on haunted houses of the South.”

  “If I can’t preserve your confidence, then I promise you I won’t use it at all.”

  “All right then. The two women were Libby and Cass.”

  Mandarin made a mental note.

  “They lived together here for about three years. Then Libby died. She was only about thirty.”

  “Do you know what she died of?” Russ asked.

  “I found out after I got interested in this. How’s the song go—’too much pills and liquor.’”

  “Seems awfully young.”

  “She hadn’t been taking care of herself. One night she passed out after tying one on, and she died in the hospital emergency room.”

  “Did the hauntings start then?”

  “Well, there’s no way to be sure. The house stood empty for a couple of years afterward. Legal problems. Libby’s father hadn’t cared for her lifestyle, and when she died he saw to it that Cass couldn’t buy Libby’s share of the house and property. That made Cass angry, so she wouldn’t sell out her share. Finally they agreed on selling the house and land, lock, stock, and barrel, and dividing the payment. That’s when I bought it.”

  “No one else has ever lived here, then?”

  Gayle hesitated a moment. “No—except for a third girl they had here once, a nurse. They rented a third bedroom to her. But that didn’t work out, and she left after a few months. Otherwise, I’m the only other person to live here.”

  “It seems a little large for one person,” Stryker observed.

  “Not really. I have a son in college now who stays here over breaks. And now and then a niece comes to visit. So the spare rooms are handy.”

  “Well, what happened after you moved in?”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “Just… well, a series of things. Just strange things…

  “Lights wouldn’t stay on or off. I used to think I was just getting absentminded, but then I began to pay careful attention. Like I’d go off to a movie, then come back and find the carport light off—when the switch was inside. It really scared me. There’s other houses closer now, but this is a rural area pretty much. Prissy’s company, but I don’t know if she could fight off a prowler. I keep a gun.”

  “Has an electrician ever checked your wiring?”

  “No. It was OK’d originally, of course.”

  “Can anyone break in without your having realized it?”

  “No. You see, I’m worried about breakins, as I say. I’ve got double locks on all the doors, and the windows have special locks. Someone would have to break the glass, or pry open the woodwork around the doors—leave marks. That’s never happened.

  “And other things seem to turn on and off. My electric toothbrush, for instance. I told my son and he laughed—then one night the light beside his bed flashed off.”

  “Presumably you could trace all this to electrical disturbances,” Russ pointed out.

  Gayle gestured towards the corner of the living room. “All right. See that wind-up Victrola? No electricity. Yet the damn thing turns itself on. Several times at night I’ve heard it playing—that old song, you know …”

  She sang a line or two: “Come back, blue lady, come back. Don’t be blue anymore …”

  Stryker quickly moved to the machine. It was an old Victrola walnut-veneer console model, with speaker and record storage in the lower cabinet. He lifted the hinged lid. It was heavy. Inside, the huge tonearm was swung back on its pivot.

  “Do you keep a record on the turntable normally?”

  “Yes. I like to show the thing off. But I’m certain I haven’t left ‘Blue Skirt Waltz’ on every time.”

  “It’s on now.”

  “Yes, I leave it there now.”

  “Why not get rid of the record as an experiment?”

  “What could I think if I found it back again?”

  Stryker grinned. He moved the starting lever with his finger. The turntable began to spin.

  “You keep this thing wound?” Russ asked.

  “Yes,” Gayle answered uneasily.

  Curtiss swung the hinged tonearm down, rested the thick steel needle on the shellac disc.

  I dream of that night with you

  Darling, when first we met…

  “Turn it off again—please!”

  *

  II

  Stryker hastily complied. “Just wanted to see what was involved in turning it on.”

  “Sorry,” Gayle apologized. “The thing has gotten on my nerves, I guess. How about refills all around?”

  “Fine,” Stryker agreed, taking a final chew on his lime twist.

  When their hostess had disappeared into the kitchen with their glasses, he murmured aside to Mandarin, “What do you think?”

  Russ shrugged. “What can I say from a few minutes talking, listening to her? There’s no blatant elevation of her porcelain titer, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What’s that mean?” the writer asked, annoyed.

  “She doesn’t come on as an outright crock.”

  Stryker’s mustache twitched. “Think I’ll write that down.”

  He did.

  “Useful for rounds,” Russ explained in apology.

  “What about the occult angle? So far I’m betting on screwy electrical wiring and vibrations from passing trucks or something.”

  Stryker started to reply, but then Gayle Corrington rustled back, three glasses and a wedge of cheese on a tray.

  “I’ve been told most of this can be explained by wiring problems or vibrations,” she was saying. “Like when the house settles on its foundation.”

  Russ accepted his drink with aplomb—wondering if she had overheard.

  “But I asked the real estate man about that,” she went on, “and he told me the house rests on bedrock. You’ve seen the limestone outcroppings in the yard. They even had to use dynamite putting down the foundation footings.”

  “Is there a cellar?”

  “No. Not even a crawl space. But I have storage in the carport and in the spare rooms. There’s a gardening shed out back, you’ll notice— by the crepe myrtle. Libby liked to garden. All these roses were her doing. I pay a man from the nursery to keep them up for me. Seems like Libby would be sad if I just let them go to pot.”

  “Do you feel like Libby is still here?” Russ asked casually.

  She hadn’t missed the implication, and Russ wished again Curtiss hadn’t introduced him as a psychiatrist. “Well, yes,” she answered cautiously. “I hope that doesn’t sound neurotic.”

  “Has anything happened that you feel can’t be explained—well, by the usual explanations?” Curtiss asked, steering the interview towards safer waters.

  “Poltergeist phenomena, you mean? Well, I’ve only touched on that. One night th
e phone cord started swinging back and forth. All by itself—nothing near it. I was sitting out here reading when I saw that happen. Then my maid was here one afternoon when all the paper cups dropped out of the dispenser and started rolling up and down the kitchen counter. Another night that brass table lamp there started rocking back and forth on its base—just like someone had struck it. Of course, I was the only one here. Christ, I felt like yelling, ‘Libby! Cut it out!”‘

  “Is there much truck traffic on the highway out front?” Stryker asked. “Stone transmits vibrations a long way, and if the house rests on bedrock…”

  “No truck traffic to speak of—not since the interstates were completed through Knoxville. Maybe a pickup or that sort of thing drives by. I’ve thought of that angle, too.

  “But, darn it—there’s too many other things.” Her face seemed defiant. She’s thought a lot about this, Russ surmised—and now that she’s decided to tell someone else about it, she doesn’t want to be taken for a credulous fool.

  “Like my television.” She pointed to the color portable resting on one end of the long raised hearth. “If you’ve ever tried to lug one of these things around, you know how portable they really are. I keep it here because I can watch it either from that chair or when I’m out sunning on the patio. Twice, though, I’ve come back and found it’s somehow slid down the hearth a foot or so. I noticed because the picture was blocked by the edge of that end table when I tried to watch from my lounge chair on the patio. And I know the other furniture wasn’t out of place, because I line the set up with that cracked brick there—so I know I can see it from the patio, in case I’ve moved it around someplace else. Both times it was several inches past that brick.”

  Russ examined the set, a recent portable model. One edge of its simulated walnut chassis was lined up one row of bricks down from where a crack caused by heat expansion crossed the hearth. He pushed at the set experimentally. It wouldn’t slide.

  “Tell me truck vibrations were responsible for this,” Gayle challenged.

  “Your cleaning maid…”