by John Langan
"I asked him what was wrong with that house. He said, 'I fear I may have left it in worse condition than when I moved in.' This seemed ridiculous to me. Surely any damage he might have done the place would have been repaired long since. 'What damage could be,' he said.
"That was the last we spoke of that summer. Shortly thereafter, Thomas's cancer worsened, and there were more immediate things to think about than the events of seventeen years prior. In the years since my husband's death, I have reflected on our conversation that Christmas night. I am not sure how much of what Thomas said I truly understood. About ten years after we laid Thomas to rest, I became very interested in Rudolph de Castries. I spent a good deal of time in the Princeton library. Much has been written about his painting. His is the kind of work predicated on elaborate theories that academics so love. He wrote a book whose title I cannot remember. It was either Greek or Latin, and meant something like the magic of places or the magic of houses. It is dreadfully written. I will not bother expounding its contents.
"I presume you are interested in writing about Thomas's time in your house, perhaps an article for a local magazine. I have told you what I know, which I realize is not much. Thomas did not keep a diary. He said his art was all the journal he required. If your interest is more academic, then I would suggest you consider the use my husband made of Rudolph de Castries's theories. Everything I know about de Castries convinces me he was unsavory, even for an artist. Perhaps this is the real reason I did not tell Professor Rice about our Christmas conversation. As far as I know, no one has noticed the connection before now. Nonetheless, it is there. Rudolph de Castries had some influence on my husband."
Viola's letter concluded, "I wish I could explain why, after more than three decades, the memory of Thomas's final words about his summer away make me reach for my sweater. No doubt you will dismiss my reaction as an old woman's hysteria. It is not. I will not offer further assistance, as I have told you all I know. I wish you well in your endeavors."
Once I came to the end of Viola's letter, I went back to the beginning and read it a second time, then a third. The fourth and fifth reads were more skims. Far away, my headache was pounding. Here was Viola Belvedere writing—what? Was she confirming my beliefs about her husband's summer here? Or was I reading too much into her letter? I scanned it again, especially their last conversation on the subject. This de Castries seemed worth checking out. I folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope.
I was on my way up to the library to Google Rudolph de Castries when Roger met me at the top of the stairs to ask if I would come to his office; he had something to show me. Watching him bending over, maneuvering the fragment so that it wouldn't smudge the circle, I had to leave the room, immediately. I know, I know. After everything I'd been through in the last few weeks, to freak out over Roger's latest online purchase? You never know what your own limits are, I guess. I mean, look: their possible supernatural implications aside, Roger's activities in the office were pure desire, untrammeled by rational thought. However intrigued by them I was, I recognized that. In general, though, he was so systematic about everything it made what he was doing seem more rational—more believable. In the expression on his face as he straightened up and surveyed the model, I saw through all the research, all the model-building and mapmaking, to the heart of the matter, to my husband's raw need, to the wound of his son's death that continued to bleed deep inside him.
Mumbling something about dinner, I ran out of the office, down the stairs to the second floor, and along the hall to the stairs to the first floor. Halfway down, a tidal wave of dizziness swept over me. I thought I was about to tip over the banister. I sat down, holding onto the banister as the house swung around me. Blackness swarmed the edges of my vision. Black spots blinked in front of my eyes like messages in Morse code. I didn't lose consciousness, not exactly, but everything around me receded, as if I were at one end of a long, dark tunnel and what had been around me was at the other. I slumped back on the stairs, swooning—how Victorian, right? It wasn't as scary as I would have expected. In fact, it was surprisingly peaceful, this floating in a calm, lightless place.
In the midst of that sudden disconnect from the outside world, I was aware of the house. Rooms side by side and one on top of the other; walls inside and out; floors and ceilings; windows and doors. The sensation was no more intense than normal, but with nothing to distract me from it, I could notice that some parts of it were no longer the same. The change wasn't dramatic. With a few, notable exceptions, my connection to Belvedere House occurred at the lowest level of my perception—what I was feeling now was occurring at the lowest level of that lowest level. In places, the house was becoming thinner. I'm not talking about termites here, or dry rot; I mean the house's space was failing, losing its integrity. Not at the places you would have expected, either. Ted's childhood room was fine, but both ends of the second floor hallway weren't. At those spots—beyond them—even more faintly, more subtly, I felt movement, as if enormous things were shifting out there, swinging into position. The house was being reshaped—reconfigured—in ways I didn't understand, and that frightened me. From other parts of the house, what seemed like long tunnels stretched away so far I couldn't tell where they ended. They were empty, these tunnels, so empty, it was like they were made out of emptiness. What travels through these? I wondered, and any remaining peace I might have felt evaporated, replaced by out and out fear. I no longer wanted to be in my swoon. For that matter, I no longer wanted to be in this house. I struggled to bring myself back to consciousness, to heave myself back from wherever I was, but the swoon held me tight. I felt those empty tunnels going on and on and on, out into cold and dark. I felt them reaching to places that weren't even places, places there aren't words to describe. There was no one there—no thing—but the prospect that there would be fueled my terror.
From far away, I heard something—a voice, saying my name. For a moment, I was sure it was coming from one of those distant not-places, and I swear my heart stopped. I saw huge copies of Roger's face mouthing my name. My thoughts jumbled, Oh my God, and, They know my name, and, Stop, why won't this stop? before I realized that the voice was from someplace else, from above where I was lying on the stairs. In an instant, the world rushed back around me, Roger along with it, bending over me and saying, "Veronica? Honey, can you hear me? Veronica?"
Trying to sit up, I said, "I'm all right. I'm fine."
Roger slid his arm behind my back and helped me up. "You left in a bit of a hurry," he said. "I was on my way to lend a hand with dinner and I came upon you, collapsed here. What happened?"
"I swooned," I said.
"Why?" Roger said. "What brought this on?"
Talk about your moment of truth. What was I supposed to say? That the sight of him holding his mail-order relic had made the obsessive, wish-fulfillment nature of his work in his office painfully clear to me, and that was why I'd run out, into—what? Funny—there had been a time when I could, and would, have been that bluntly honest with him, during the first days of our relationship. We used to say these devastating things to one another, but it was okay, because we didn't really know each other that well, so we weren't aware of how terrible some of what we said was—and since we knew we were in this state of mutual ignorance, we didn't take offense. Now, it was harder to be so direct—especially about the project that occupied Roger's days and nights. Knowing each other better gave us less room to offend. As for telling him about what I'd experienced while I was out of it—that would only convince him that what he was doing was working.
Yes, wasn't it? It does seem the slightest bit contradictory, doesn't it? Here I am reducing Roger's work to desperate longing; meanwhile, I'm having these paranormal experiences. Yet each experience strengthened my conviction that Roger didn't understand what was happening to us—to me. Not that I did. I simply recognized that the situation went beyond Roger's account of it. After what had just washed over me, my need to escape the house was as great a
s it had ever been. So, I lied to him. I looked into his face, full of concern, and said, "It's—I'm exhausted, Roger. I need a break."
The arm supporting me tensed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that I've been up every night with you roaming the house, and it's taken its toll. I can't function like this."
"There's no need for you to get up with me—"
"Give me a break," I said. "What else am I going to do? What would you do, if positions were reversed?"
"What are you suggesting, then?"
"A few days away. Addie told me this week's renters for the Cape House canceled at the last minute. It's too late for them to advertise it. If I call them now, we can get it." I could see the resistance gathering in his eyes, so I hurried on. "I'm not saying we have to stay for the full week, just for a couple of days—so I can catch my breath, recharge my batteries. We won't be there long enough for it to make any difference to your plans. But honey, I really need this."
"What makes you so certain I won't continue to sleepwalk at the Cape?" he asked.
"It's worth a try," I said.
His face was a study in conflicting emotions. He jabbed his teeth into his lip. "All right. Let's go to the Cape."
Had he not found me semiconscious on the stairs, I'm sure Roger would have turned down my request. At best, he would have insisted I go. I might have, too. I'm not certain I would have been able to decide if it was more important for me to be there with him, or for at least one of us to get out of the house for a few days. As it was, he saw me weak and defenseless and went along with me—which I normally would have found pathetic and repellent—but we were racing through brand new territory at a hundred miles an hour, and if weak and defenseless was what it took for us to pull off at the next exit, then so be it. The moment Roger agreed to a few days on the Cape, I struggled to my feet, lurched down the stairs, half-supported by Roger, and called Addie on the phone in the hall. She was so thrilled to have someone to take the house that she offered it to us at a discount. Could we drive out tomorrow? I asked, and Addie said yes, that would be fine. Great, I said, we'd drop off the check in the morning, on our way to the Thruway.
That was what we did. Rudolph de Castries and his crazy theories could wait. I packed a few days' supply of clothes and toiletries for Roger and me. By eight o'clock the next morning we were speeding up I-87.
First, though—first came the night's sleepwalking. Roger had worked the rest of that afternoon and through the night. By the time he came to bed, it was past midnight. I had wondered how the prospect of his imminent departure would affect his sleepwalking. Either he'd be so relieved, I thought, that he'd sleep like a baby, or he'd be off on his longest journey yet. As it turned out, neither of those guesses was correct. Once I'd seen him safely to the top of the third-floor stairs—force of habit—I was tempted to cut my observations short and return to bed, myself. I would have, if I hadn't realized that, tonight, Roger's constant murmur was louder than usual, and growing louder still as he neared his office. I heard him saying, "A knife, a by-God knife," and ran up after him.
He was holding his usual position, in front of his homemade map. Although the rest of his face was slack, his lips were moving furiously, almost spitting his words. His voice was angry, choked with emotion. "Words," he said. "What good are words. Curses? Don't make me laugh. Fucking motherfucker. So what. Where's the power in that? How could you hurt anyone with that? Not him. Not him at all. Take it as a compliment, most likely. Words with meaning. Sharp. Razored. Barbed, tipped with slow-acting poison. That's what you need. Not too long, or you'll lose him. Never had much of an attention span. Dyslexia, right. Not too short, or he'll brush it off. Have to hit him hard and fast. Drive it in deep, twist it, leave it stuck in his gut.
"Always wanted to be taken seriously. Wanted to amount to something. Wanted approval. Want want want. Wanted to do what he wanted to do. Wanted what he thought was important. Wanted what he hadn't earned. Want. That's where you go.
"Get his attention. The best part of you ran down your mother's leg. No, the best part of you dribbled down your mother's leg. Better. Wait. Boy, the best part of you dribbled down your mother's leg. He used to say that to me. Oldie but goodie.
"Move quickly. Get to the point. Points, pitchfork. Pitchfork him. Reading. Reading writing rithmetic. Just reading. I have always been disappointed in you. No. Isn't your problem. Your fault. You have always been a disappointment to me. Better. Say it all. From your inability to read even a single book when you were a child, to the self-indulgence of your adolescence, to the blind surrender to authority that you call a career. Careful!" Roger sucked in his breath. "Too long. Yes? Depends. What's next?
"Keep it short. You are an embarrassment and a disgrace. Good, good. Boy, the best part of you dribbled down your mother's leg. You have always been a disappointment to me, from your inability to read even a single book when you were a child, to the self-indulgence of your adolescence, to the blind surrender to authority that you call a career. You are an embarrassment and a disgrace. Yes. More?
"So much more. Nothing. Your life has been nothing. It is nothing. It will always be nothing. Okay. Get to the point. I disown you. Too short. Not enough weight. I am no longer your father; you are no longer my son. Almost. Time. As of this moment, I am no longer your father; you are no longer my son. Wait. I disown you; I cast you from me. All right. Leave it there? No no. Balance is off. A knife. Needs proper balance. Your life has been nothing; it is nothing; it will always be nothing. As of this moment, I am no longer your father; you are no longer my son. I disown you; I cast you out. Let all bonds between us be sundered; let our blood no longer be true. Yes. Enough?
"Almost. Big finish. Die. Death. When you die. And when you die. What? And when you die, may you know fitting torment. May you not escape your failure. Nice. Something to conclude? You are a stranger to me. Good day. Sir. Yes. Add the sir. Ha. Good touch."
Roger repeated the eleven sentences of his curse once, twice, three times. They didn't become any easier to hear. After the third repetition, he fell silent, and I thought this was it for the night. It was enough, believe me.
Then he spoke again, in a stage whisper that seemed too loud for the movement of his lips. To be honest, it sounded as if it came as much from the walls of the house as it did his mouth. "You know what you are asking," the whisper said. After a pause, it continued, "Much is required. What do you offer?" The words fluttered through the darkness around me. "Blood," the whisper said. "Pain." Bloodpain, bloodpain, bloodpain, the words echoed down the hall. The hair on the back of my neck was standing straight up. I wrapped my arms around myself. My heart was pounding high in my chest, almost at the base of my throat. The house, usually quiet during Roger's sleepwalk, was awake; that was what it felt like, awake and watching. Roger's mouth moved, and the whisper said, "Sweet—but not enough."
Suddenly, Roger's voice was back. "Anything," he said hoarsely. "Anything—take whatever you need. Whatever you need. Anything."
Interlude: Standing at the Railing
And?" my wife asked.
"That was all she told me," I said. "More or less. She said the story was taking longer than she'd anticipated, and this was as good a place to stop as any. Then she headed off to bed."
We were seated around the picnic table on the Cape House's back lawn, together with Leigh, who had roused herself in time to join us for the lunch Ann had prepared. Robbie, whom I had fed his meal of pureed beef and carrots and dessert of liquid pears first, was toddling around the grass still stiff and crackling from winter, each step an adventure. The sun was streaming light; in the lee of the house, the air was warm enough for us to require only sweaters to sit outside. Addie and Harlow had left early, to visit friends in Hyannis, as had Veronica, who had been up and on her way out to Provincetown when Ann, Robbie, and I were making our way downstairs. "I have an appointment," she had said, "I won't be back for dinner." Over breakfast, Ann had asked me what had kept me up so late. I told
her in two blocks interrupted by Robbie's morning nap, and punctuated by his babbling and occasional outbursts. When Leigh put in her appearance, I was concluding the recounting to whose secrecy I had sworn Ann, and which Leigh agreed not to disclose in return for me catching her up and then finishing.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Leigh said.
"What is?" I asked.
"The whole thing—all of it. She really expects you to believe this, just swallow it, hook, line, and sinker? Please—she's obviously making her story up as she goes along."
Robbie had picked up a pinecone and was bringing it towards his mouth. "Robbie," I called, "put that down, please." He ignored me, closing his lips on it. I leapt up from the bench, crossed the yard to him in two strides, and removed the pinecone from his mouth. Startled, he looked up at me. "When Daddy tells you to put something down, you put it down," I said, tossing the pinecone into the trees. He immediately burst into tears.
Ann hurried over to him. "He's just a baby," she said, picking Robbie up.