Dreams from the Witch House: Female Voices of Lovecraftian Horror

by Joyce Carol Oates

  She turned the page. Now she had stepped beyond the mouth of the tunnel onto a paved pathway. The stones were inlaid with shells and crystals, depicting stylized sea creatures and curling waves. She could see now that the entire city was walled. Sentinel statues, as tall as three storied buildings, stood guard at the immense gates, which were slightly ajar. The statues had the torsos of men, but their heads hung down so you could not see their faces, and were further obscured by swathes of weedlike hair that fell to their waists. Below that, they were of the sea; not with fish tails, like mermen, but a mass of squidlike tentacles. These creatures were not fearsome but to be respected. She did not want to wake them.

  Cara turned the page. She was right by the statues now, close to the alluringly barely open gates. The portal was made of stone, and carved with octopi rampant—that was the only way she could describe them. On each looming panel a creature faced inward, four of its tentacles raised toward its partner on the other gate.

  Cara put her hand upon the stone, then jumped, as if woken abruptly from sleep. “What?” she said aloud. She’d been there, just for an instant. Not merely looking at a picture, but ready to push open the gates. How evocative these old illustrations were. They’d drawn her in that much. She took a step back from the table.

  For several long seconds she stood motionless. Her head was aching slightly. Then she became aware of a presence, another living thing, and her gaze snapped to the doorway. She couldn’t suppress a small cry and jumped in alarm. A young woman stood at the threshold; tall, thin, with a small, round head. Her pale hair streamed to her waist and she wore a long ocean-green dress. Her large, rather protuberant eyes were fixed on Cara. For some agonizing moments Cara thought this person wasn’t real, couldn’t be, but then the woman said. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Would you like some tea? Just making some for the missus.”

  “Oh…” Cara shook her head. “Sorry, I was miles away. Yes, that’s kind of you.”

  The woman smiled. She had a wide mouth. “I’ll bring a tray.”

  Was she beautiful or hideous? Cara truly couldn’t say. Arresting, perhaps. Strange.

  Cara closed the book; she would begin work upon the cover. As she mixed her cellulose paste, the woman returned, gliding into the room like one of those peculiar catwalk models who were striking to behold, yet not anyone’s idea of conventionally pretty. She did not seem to be the sort of person who would serve tea, or indeed engage in any menial task.

  She appeared curious about what Cara was doing, peering somewhat indirectly, perhaps to be polite, so Cara felt she should say something. She held up her pot of cellulose mixture. “This is to mend the cover. The paste will soak gently into the leather without damaging it, simply binding its fibers, protecting them.” She smiled, not comfortable enough to look directly into the woman’s round-eyed stare. “It won’t look new but it will be strong again.” She risked a quick glance. “You work here, then?”

  “I help,” said the woman.

  “You’re from the farm, Morbenyn.”

  “That’s right. We help out.” She smiled in her oddly face-stretching way. “I’m Minny.”

  “Cara,” Cara said, managing not to laugh at the other woman’s name, which was so inappropriate it didn’t sound feasible. “This is a very beautiful book.”

  “It is. We’re very glad there are people like you to save it.” Minny laughed in an entirely normal way, which coming from her seemed completely odd. “Oh, what does that sound like? It’s not our book, of course, but the legends mean a lot to us around here. The old sea stories. And they’re not saved anywhere, are they, some of the old legends?”

  “I know what you mean. It’s horrible to think how many wonderful stories are just lost.” Cara pointed at the book. “Disintegrating away in old libraries.”

  Minny nodded. “Well, happily this will not be one of them.”

  “So…” Cara began carefully. “This book is about a local legend?”

  “The deep city, yes.”

  “ I thought at first it would just be about marine life and so on.”

  “Well, it is that too. Perhaps half the species are dead now.”

  “A very old legend, then.”

  “Oh yes, very old.” Minny straightened up. “Sugar?”

  “Yes, just a little bit.” Cara inspected the woman as she poured out the tea. She could be a mermaid herself, with that pale coloring, the streaming hair, and—it had to be said—somewhat fishlike features. Did this indicate inbreeding?

  “Do you know what the language is, in this book?” Cara asked as Minny handed her a mug. “It doesn’t look like old Cornish.”

  “It’s a dead language now,” Minny replied.

  “From what part of the world?”

  “Oh, far away. I don’t know, really. No one does.”

  “Where did the book come from?”

  “It’s been in the De La Mere family for a long time, that’s all I know. They were seafaring people.”

  “But you said it was a local legend…”

  “It is.” Minny grinned widely again. “Well, perhaps legends repeat themselves, in different places. I’m not sure where the book came from exactly. You’ll have to ask the missus if you want to know more.”

  “Well, I’m just being curious. I don’t need to know the book’s history to restore it. I just think it’s so fascinating.”

  Minny nodded. “The pictures are magical. I loved them when I was little. The missus always lets the children look at them.”

  The book didn’t look like a children’s book to Cara, mainly because the era in which it appeared to have been made didn’t tend to produce books specifically for children. Still, it had illustrations, and to many people a book with pictures was for the young.

  By lunchtime, Cara had finished work on the cover and left it to settle for the rest of the day. She was still curious about what else the book contained, but would have to leave further exploration until tomorrow.

  Judy called Cara to a modest lunch of sausage rolls and tea. The weather had cleared somewhat; at least the rain had stopped. “I’m thinking of going into the village this afternoon,” Cara said.

  Judy nodded disinterestedly, nibbling at her food. Cara wondered about the girl. Where were her parents? Why wasn’t she at school or college or at work? Did she live off her grandmother?

  “Are there any local sites of interest?” Cara asked.

  Judy shrugged. “Not really.”

  Determinedly, Cara said, “Perhaps you could tell me something about the book I’m working on? It seems to have a history!” She laughed a little.

  “It’s just a relic,” Judy said.

  Cara gave up any pretense of conversation and finished her lunch.

  §

  A winding lane led down to Mordarras, past the Morbenyn Farm. A sharp wind hurried clouds across the sky, making the watery sunlight dappled. Early spring flowers groped for light beside the path. Above, seabirds surfed the air, uttering those bleating cries that always reminded Cara of childhood holidays. Did people still have holidays like that? A hotel at a seaside resort, buckets and spades, ice cream melting over cardboardy cones? Cara’s walking boots crunched upon the loose gravel of the lane. Gorse bushes spiked the sides of the roads stiffly. And to her left, far below, surged the sea. Mordarras was held in a circle of rock providing a natural harbor. It looked bleak, though, small white buildings cowering beneath the black cliffs. Perhaps in summer it was different. Cara hoped there would be a café she could sit in; she’d brought a novel with her.

  Halfway to the village, she heard the hard tap of horses’ hooves behind her, paused and turned. A pony and trap was approaching; how quaint. Cara saw it was driven by Minny from the farm. The woman pulled the pony to a halt. “Want a lift, m’love?”

  “Oh… oh yes, thank you.” Cara climbed up beside the driver. “I’ve never had a ride in one of these.”

  “People take the car, don’t they,” the woman said, “even whe
n it’s two steps down the road. What’s the rush?”

  “It’s far nicer to go to the village like this,” Cara said. “Thanks, Minny.”

  The woman laughed. “Oh, I’m not Minny, I’m Tally.”

  Cara stared at her.

  “Her sister,” the woman said. “Twin.”

  Cara shook her head. “Sorry, the resemblance is… well, of course I’ve only met your sister today.”

  “Our own people still make the mistake,” Tally said amiably.

  “I’m Cara…”

  “Yes,” Tally interrupted, “she told me.”

  The café was still closed for the season, but Tally said that the local postmistress served tea to visitors. “Not that we get many at this time of year, but I take a cup with Sissy when I’m in town.”

  Cara suppressed a smile. Sissy. Town. She didn’t need a novel to read; she was in one.

  Tally dropped her by the door to the post office. “If you want a lift back up, I’ll be an hour or so.”

  “No, that’s fine, thank you. I could do with the walk.” Cara patted her stomach.

  Tally stretched a wide-lipped smile, clucked to her pony, and moved on.

  §

  Sissy the postmistress was clearly a relative of the Morbenyn mermaids, since she shared the same appearance, except she was older and wore her hair in a neat bun. Also, her eyes bulged so much, she seemed not to blink. Cara half-expected a nictitating membrane to slip across Sissy’s eyes. Like the others, she was friendly and perhaps bored, all alone in her shop in the empty season. The makeshift tea room amenities comprised two small tables at the back of the store, with chairs crammed round them. It quickly became clear that Cara would not be allowed time to read in silence. “How’s your work going?” Sissy asked, looming gauntly over the table. Really, these specimens should be secretive and aloof, Cara thought. Their sociability seemed incongruous, but then, she reflected, most fishes swim in schools. At least now she could look them square in the face and not feel faintly freaked.

  “Oh, the treatment is going well,” Cara said. “Does Mrs. De La Mere make the book available to tourists in the summer? It seems quite a local celebrity, in its way.”

  “Oh no,” Sissy said, “it’s not for them. The children like it. Do you have any children?”

  “No.” Cara hoped the hardness of the word would stem any further enquiries down that path. She decided to make some of her own. “Does Judy De La Mere have no parents?”

  Sissy’s wide mouth opened and closed a few times. “The missus is all she has now,” she said dramatically.

  Perhaps they drowned out in the bay, Cara thought, rather maliciously, and wished she could ask, but realized the question might be offensive.

  §

  Leaving the post office earlier than she planned, because Sissy refused to leave her alone and wanted to witter on about the problems of running the place, Cara decided to explore the village. Rain clouds had begun to threaten the horizon again. She hoped they’d hold off, or perhaps she should seek out Tally for a lift home shortly. There were hardly any people about. The shops, mostly for tourists, were closed. Small houses clung to the cliff walls like barnacles, and there were lights in the windows of some of them. Cara saw figures down on the beach, perhaps shellfish-gathering, as they were stooped over rock pools, panniers hanging from their shoulders. All of them were women—from a distance appearing tall and strong, their long legs clad in heavy thigh-length boots. Cara hadn’t seen a single male since arriving at Maples the day before, but then she’d hardly been out. Perhaps the men worked away in a larger town.

  §

  Later over dinner, Mrs. De La Mere—again fortified by sherry—offered more information about her family. “In days gone by, there were fortunes to be made,” she said. “De La Meres brought many strange and wonderful things home from their travels and used to sell them. Not here, of course—not much call—but in the towns, and even up in London.”

  “And your book came to you in this way?” Cara asked, then added, “Minny said it depicted a local legend, though.”

  Mrs. De La Mere laughed. “Well, not exactly that. There is a local story of a city beneath the sea, but then there are stories all over the world like that. The families here like to think the book is about this area, their sea, but that’s romance, isn’t it?”

  “The language in the book,” Cara said, “I didn’t recognize it.”

  “No one does,” said Mrs. De La Mere.

  “Have you ever thought of having the book examined by experts?”

  “I understood you were an expert.” Mrs. De La Mere’s tone was somewhat tart.

  “I meant someone who knows languages, antiquity… Aren’t you curious?”

  “It’s a much-loved old book that means a lot to my family and, as you have seen, to others. I don’t want experts tramping about, thinking they know it all, and I wouldn’t let Marvels leave this house.”

  Cara sensed the slight hostility entering the conversation, inspired, she thought, by the drink. “Of course, that’s understandable,” she said in a soothing tone. “I’ll start work on the pages tomorrow. It’ll soon be mended.”

  §

  Cara went to bed early to read her novel, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words. She had always made up stories in her mind, and a new one was forming now, of a town comprised of peculiar land-walking mermaids, where there were no men, and a sacred book resided in a wind-scoured old house on the cliffside. The lady who lived there was the guardian of this book and her granddaughter? What role did she play in this story?

  Laying her open book facedown on the bed, Cara blinked at the ceiling. The granddaughter must be the oracle, the sea priestess, and at night the sea moaned, lit up, and something came from it.

  Cara smiled to herself. Yes, that idea worked. She turned off her bedside light and turned onto her side. After some minutes, the tapping began.

  Roused from a half sleep, Cara lay for some time listening to the hollow knockings from the radiator. They sounded too regular to be random noises from the plumbing, and were softer than what she’d heard the previous night. She turned on her light again and padded across the room to the radiator. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap. She ran her fingers over the rugged, painted metal, which was again comfortably warm. Almost without thinking, she rapped back: Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. Tap. This was repeated to her. She shook her head, remembering then how when she was young, staying with her cousins, they had communicated with each other like this at night, pretending to be secret agents. Code through the radiators. Now she rapped out a different code: Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. And it was sent back to her.

  Could this be Judy? She doubted Mrs. De La Mere would be responsible.

  Cara rapped again, a more complicated rhythm, but all was silent. She looked out of the window at the sea, but it wasn’t shining.

  §

  At breakfast, Cara told Judy bluntly. “I heard the noises in the radiator again last night. And the strangest thing was, when I made the same tappings, they were copied, sent back to me.”

  Judy glanced up from her meal inscrutably. “You think so?”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  Judy shrugged. “Well, I doubt it was.”

  No further interrogation seemed possible.

  §

  In the library, Cara was pleased to see that her work the previous day had been successful. The cover boards looked good—not new, of course, but restored, which was the idea. Now she could start work on the pages. Reverently, she opened the book. She would resist looking through it now, but would discover each illustration as she worked. She laid out her materials and plugged her small Teflon iron into the nearest wall socket to heat up. Then, from a package of protective sheets, she peeled a single tissue, which she trimmed to the relevant size. This she laid carefully over the first page. When her iron was ready, she applied it to the tissue gently but firmly, so that resins within it were released and adhered subtly to the fib
ers beneath. What odd fibers they were too. When the page had cooled, she turned it and bent down to peer at the other side. It wasn’t fashioned from wood pulp, that was obvious, but neither did it seem to have the exact consistency of linen, or any plant derived fiber. Some kind of treated animal skin? Yet the laminate had behaved as if it had been applied to a linen paper page. Must be that, just somehow altered by storage conditions and age.

  Pausing to allow some time to gaze upon the illustrations she’d seen previously, Cara worked to the point where she reached a new picture.

  Beyond the city gates, a wide avenue of tall, branching corals, like a processional way, unrolled before her. Ahead, an immense building reared. It was roughly pyramidal, but built of tiers. Statues similar to those at the gate guarded its walls. They were almost angelic, Cara thought, but for their obviously aquatic features.

  She turned the page.

  This building was a temple, she could see that now, and she had reached the steps that led to its yawning entrance. Beyond was only darkness. But from within, faint sounds emerged, chanting perhaps, or singing.

  As on the day before, Cara jerked from the dreamlike state she was in, finding herself in reality. And didn’t a faint song still tantalize her ears? She went quickly to the stained-glass window, put her hands against it. No, too indistinct to hear now. The sounds must have been the wind, the distant waves. Her grandmother used to say to her: Too imaginative, young lady. That’s your trouble. Cara had always preferred make-believe to reality. As an adult, she hid this more effectively than she had as a child.

  At this point Minny manifested at the doorway, today already carrying a tray of tea things. She came silently, but Cara was aware of her arrival, nonetheless. “Hi,” she said, turning from the window, “I thought I heard something. Like singing.”