At that moment she heard the dogs baying.
Tense as a fox, she sat up and listened. Was it only Old Man Wilson, hunting, with his pack along the north ridge? Or was it... the Law? A posse, with guns, following the deputy sheriff and his two flop-eared bloodhounds through the cane-brake. Following a trail of small bare feet. Her feet...
The little albino sprang up, her flat darkey features contorted with panic. Harrowing yarns crowded her memory. Of the time Aunt Fan’s preacher husband had hid in the canebrake for eight days, with the dogs baying closer and closer. And Aunt Fan’s husband had only cut a man with his razor, while she...
Just then she heard the screech-owl, right over her head.
Seven Sisters was running again, goaded now by the spurs of terror. But now the very woods seemed hostile. Gnarled branches snatched at her cottony hair and tore a jagged flap in her gingham dress. Old spider webs clung to her face. The dogs sounded nearer. Once more she tripped and fell, panting, but sprang up again with a scream as something slithered out from beneath her arm.
The screech-owl tittered again, from somewhere above her. It seemed to be trailing the ghostly little fugitive, so white against the ground.
Seven Sisters ran on, blindly, staggering with exhaustion. Once she cried out in her terror—oddly, • the very name of the one she was running from:
”Cap’m... ! Cap’m Jim...”
Of a sudden the ground dropped from beneath her feet. She pitched forward, and felt herself falling into space. Dark icy water rushed up out of nowhere to meet and engulf her…
Mist rose from the cornfield in front of Dody’s cabin. Dry leaves rattled. The gourds on the martin pole swung in the wind.
Somewhere a screech-owl quavered again, far away, in the direction of the creek—whose muddy waters had washed away the sins of many a baptized little darkey.
Parasite Mansion
THERE was nothing about the aspect of that little stretch of Alabama road to warn the girl of disaster. Driving along at a careful forty, the wheels of her battered roadster sunk in deep clay ruts, Marcia Trent had no premonition of evil lurking in that pine coppice just ahead. She was young, modern, red-headed, and furiously angry. Her blue eyes snapped as she drove, alone, through Blue Ridge foothills that shivered under the first touch of winter.
The realization that this mad dash was foolish and dangerous — four hundred miles to Birmingham, when everyone believed she was safe at a girls’ school in Carolina—pricked at her conscience now and then; but she thrust it aside angrily. The last train and the last bus had gone when, blinking the tears from her eyes, locked in her dormitory room, she had made up her mind.
And now—the blue eyes flashed—she was two-thirds of the way home... to break up her sister’s marriage to a man whose engagement solitaire winked up at her from her own left hand!
Marcia compressed her lips and shifted gears, plowing through mud as she rounded a sharp curve.
At that moment something like an angry hornet struck through the windshield of the roadster. It smacked into the leather seat a scant two inches from her shoulder, and a rayed hole glittered in the glass.
The girl screamed, ducked. This time, clearly, she had heard a muffled shout— the crack of a rifle. And that second hole in her windshield was no accident.
Someone was sniping at her from that dark coppice to the left!
Marcia slid low in the car seat, peering over the dashboard and gripping the wheel. Terror was like a hand clutching her throat. She stepped hard on the gas, and skidded around the curve.
And abruptly there was no road stretching before her eye-line. Space yawned as the car skidded and plunged downward. With a crash it slid side-wise over a low embankment. Marcia clawed at the door, tried to jump clear, but pain wrenched at her ankle. Then something hard and solid struck her head, and darkness fell like a black velvet curtain.
She fought to retain consciousness. Distorted visions swam before her eyes. Once a dirty bearded face bent over her, and she gasped at the stench of stale corn liquor.
Voices drifted to her ears, faint and disjointed:
A man’s voice, gruff and slurred with drink: "You little fool!... not to touch that rifle again... take us all away if you’ve—”
And a child’s voice, frightened and defiant: "I don’t care! I don’t care! They’ll never take Lollie away to that place—I’ll kill them!... kill everybody who comes here—”
And the man’s voice again: "... your fault if they do!... not dead, just a slight concussion. Oh, hell! Nothing we can do but—”
The car door was jerked open. Weakness and nausea overwhelmed the girl as a dirty hand reached in, tugged at her, lifted her out. Marcia half opened her eyes once, aware of being carried like a baby in strong arms. A chill drizzle of rain wet her face, and the muffled squish-squosh of heavy boots in mud kept time with the swaying of the arms that cradled her. She tried to cry out, to squirm from their grasp. But the black curtain fell once more, and the faint sobbing of a child trailed her into oblivion.
WHEN she opened her eyes again, Marcia thought she must be going mad.
There was no wrecked car, no bleak red-clay hills, no dark pine coppice hugging a lonely mountain road. She lay, warm and quiet, in a huge four-poster bed, in a high-ceiled Colonial-type room that would have delighted the heart of an antique dealer. A lighted oil lamp, held close above her, knifed at her aching head; she blinked painfully, trying to see just beyond its radiance.
And then, swiftly, she shut her eyes, trying not to see. —
Three faces were bending over her: a small tow-headed boy’s—tear-stained, sensitive and violent; a man’s face—bearded, lined by suffering, with somber eyes that held no friendliness. But the third face, Marcia thought wildly, could only be that of a mummy. That wrinkled mask with its hook nose, wispy gray hair and bright shoe-button eyes leered down at her intently. A claw-like hand poked at her hair.
"Pretty! Ay, she’s pretty! Eh? Eh, Victor?” a thin voice quavered, taunting with its acid humor. "That why you didn’t leave her to die in the car? Eh? Answer me, Victor! Because you’re lonesome and sick of hiding out here. Eh? And what happens when you’re done with her? You can’t send her back.”
Marcia shut her eyes tight. She lay stiff and still, praying that her lids would not quiver.
"Don’t be a fool, Gran,” the man’s voice lashed out, thick with drunkenness. "Renny shot at her, made her crack up her car. The Mason family,” his tone was bitter, "owes her something for that. Besides,” he added callously, "there are bullet holes in the upholstery. If someone noticed them when they found her, they’d be sure to come snooping around here... Oh, damn you, Renny!” he burst out wearily. "Why did you do a crazy thing like that? I told you not to touch that rifle.”
"But, Vic, sh-she was slowing down!” the boy’s voice whimpered. "They sent her here to get Lollie! I know they did! She can’t take her... I’ll kill her! I’ll kill her!” the voice rose to a screech of hysteria.
And Marcia’s eyes flew open in terror as two strong little hands fastened about her throat.
Feebly she fought them off, staring up into the white contorted face of the boy. He could not have been over eleven or twelve years old—but for a second time he was trying to kill her!
The bearded man moved swiftly, however. He seized the boy by the hair, shoved him toward the door with gentle force. Sobbing, screaming, the child ran out of the room. Marcia could hear his bare feet running down a long flight of stairs, followed by the distant slam of a door.
There was nothing for it now but to look up at the other two faces, with what false courage she could muster.
"Where... where am I?” Marcia forced a stiff smile and sat up. Instantly she fell back as pain knifed at her ankle. "Ooh... it’s broken!”
The bearded man looked down at her, with no sympathy in his somber eyes. "No,” he said crisply. "Just a bad sprain.
I strapped it up, and also took a few stitches in your scalp.”
Marcia blinked at him. "You... took—?”
Her head was clearing now. Tine shabby splendor of the room amazed her, dulled, even though it was, by dust and cobwebs. The bed in which she lay was beautifully made and very old, with pineapple knobs on the posts; but the frayed quilt that covered her was its only bedding. The period furniture was priceless. But rain blew unchecked through a broken pane of the window, drenching an old carved highboy across the room. A rusty blind creaked in the wind and banged against the house. The old place was like a beggar-king, arrogant still in silken rags and a tarnished crown.
The man who stood looking down at her, Marcia thought, was an even greater contradiction. Dirt)', half drunk, bearded and unkempt, he yet had the voice and manner of a gentleman. And his hands, washed clean now, were graceful and quick —hands that, he had informed her, had strapped up her sprain and skilfully taken stitches in a scalp cut.
"You’re... a doctor, then?” Marcia faltered.
The man gave a short laugh. Beside him, the old crone emitted a high squeal of mirth and squinted up at him, head to one side like an evil bird.
"Doctor! Heh-heh! Are you a doctor, she says, Victor!” One button-eye winked at Marcia, and a scrawny thumb jerked at the man. "Him, a doctor? Not any more, dearie! He’s not fit to tend a sick horse— him with his drinkin’ and hidin’ out here in the hills like a murderer, because o’ the black fear that’s in him!”
"Shut up, Gran,” the man snapped in a tired voice.
SOMETHING like a shadow had crept into his deep-set eyes at the old woman’s words. He glared at her briefly, twisting together hands that had begun to tremble. Then he glowered down at Marcia, eyes cold and unfriendly.
"Listen to me,” he rapped out. “Those bullets fired into your car were accidental, but I don’t expect you to believe that. A.. a sick child. My little brother, Renfield. He... wasn’t responsible, but of course it was outrageous. However, the facts are these: I could have left you there with a slight concussion and a sprained ankle. You were off the highway detour, you know. Cars don’t take our road once a week; so you’d have had a long crawl to the next farm. As it is, I carried you here and gave you medical attention, free of charge.”
He paused, scowling down at Marcia, at her scared blue eyes turned up to him. A slight quiver in her lower lip must have caught his attention, for the harsh voice softened.
"I’m sorry. You’re frightened, of course. Don’t be; you’re quite safe here. I can get your car in running order, and you can be on your way early tomorrow morning. Tonight you’ll have to accept—” his mouth twisted again—"such hospitality as we can offer. Tomorrow... I’m requesting only that you leave without asking questions about... anything you may see or hear in this house. Forget us as though we never existed. Isn’t that fair enough?”
"Y-yes. Oh, yes. Anything you say.” Marcia nodded terrified agreement. Of course the man was merely trying to fool her, to calm her fears until... She bit her lip, determined not to cry with those two hostile faces glaring down at her. "Thank you for... helping me,” she said brightly. "I’m sure the shooting was... accidental. And you’ve been kind, and I won’t say a thing! All I w-want is to get on to Birmingham before they m-miss me at home and at the school I left.”
The man called Victor, towering over her, gave a grunt of disdain.
"College girl, eh?” he snorted. “What are you doing, driving across country alone —Carolina to Alabama, judging by your license plate?”
Marcia set her teeth with an effort. “Not a college girl,” she said with dignity. “I’m twenty-six—an assistant professor of Abnormal Psychology. I... I’m studying to be a psychiatrist.”
The man laughed aloud, and rubbed his bearded chin.
"Well, I’ll be damned!” he said bluntly. "A dumb little fluff like you? Now I’ve seen everything!” The dark eyes narrowed as he spoke. They flicked a glance at the old crone, grinning beside him, then bored into Marcia. "All right,” he snapped. "So you’re a student-professor of psychiatry. Well... let me warn you, don’t go practicing any of your damned scientific rot around here!... Science!” Once more that shadow came into his haunted, deep-set eyes, and his mouth twitched. "Logic! It’s fine, it’s perfect until we come up against a blank wall. Then all we can do is pretend it’s not there. Fantasy! Superstition! Science has hidden behind those words too often, when something that can’t be explained—”
He broke off short, aware of the girl’s intent gaze on his face. Once more his
eyes went cold, menacing, and a long forefinger jabbed out.
"Just mind your own business while you are here,” he warned, "and nothing will happen to you. Stay in this room; don’t go prowling—not that you can do very much on that ankle. And if you hear or' see things that don’t make sense... forget ’em! Is that clear?”
With a caught breath, Marcia nodded rapidly. The man grunted, then strode toward the door. On the threshold he paused to scowl back at the old woman.
"Gran,” he called harshly, "none of your idle chatter, you hear? Or I’ll break your scrawny neck!”
The aged mummy flapped a hand at him, cackling nasally and winking one bird-like eye at Marcia. "Go on with ye, Victor! Out! Go get ye another jug of corn, and come home sotty drunk as usual! Heh-heh! I’d not be tellin’ a stranger the Mason family secret, would I? Would I ?”
The man cursed audibly and stalked out, slamming the door hard.
MAARCIA relaxed with a sigh of relief.
For now, perhaps, she could bribe this senile old woman to let her go before... Her eyes strayed to a window, its broken pane stuffed with yellowed newspaper. It was almost dusk. The sky was a dirty smear of clouds, as though a witch had swept it with her sooty broom. Rain slanted against the panes with a faint hiss of sleet. The wind had risen, whining under the eaves like a leprous beggar. Out there, the girl saw with a sinking heart, it would be a long cold hobble on her sprained ankle to the next farm.
But here—in this eerie old house, with a bearded derelict, a grinning mummy, and a murderous child — she most assuredly must not wait for night to fall. Gathering her courage, she turned a bright smile on the old hag.
"Look here,” her voice was confidential and persuasive, "there’s fifty dollars in my purse, in the glove compartment of my wrecked car. If you’ll help me get away from here before he... he comes back, you can have it.”
"Have it? Heh-heh! I got it a’ready!” old Gran cackled with evil mirth. "Renny fetched it to me whilst Victor was fuss-in’ over your hurt. A good boy, that Renny,” she crooned. Then the beady eyes narrowed. "If you tell Victor, I’ll put the lad onto ye again! He’ll do for ye this time, sure enough. Quick and strong, Renny is—if a bad shot. Now, if I was to give him a knife, let’s say—”
She squinted at the girl slyly, rubbing bony hands together. But Marcia sat up in bed, oddly steadied rather than frightened by the heavy tone of threat.
"I don’t think he wants to hurt me,” she said calmly, "except in defense of this... Lollie. His sister? I’m beginning to understand a little of this crazy business. Someone has threatened to come and take her away; is that it? Her brother shot at me, thinking I was from... the police? No, hardly. Or the county hospital, perhaps? Is Lollie tubercular or something?”
The old crone burst out in another shriek of mirth at that. For a full minute she rocked with nasal laughter, flapping thin arms. Then, without a word, she scuttled from the room, leaving the door ajar on a wide dusty hall.
Marcia, frowning after her, marveled anew at the unkept splendor of the old house, once undoubtedly the pride of an old Southern family. Places like this, she knew, were not uncommon in the Deep South. Impoverished during Reconstruction days, many a family of decadent aristocrats still lived on in old homes like this one. Stubbornly they clung to the furnishings and traditions of a bygone era, though poverty had worked its will on the people themselves. Hope and ambition had dried up at the spring. Only the stolid will to live kept them alive, bitter and
weary and uncaring, in a decaying old mansion that had once rung with music and laughter and the voices of Negro slaves.
But... Marcia shook her head. These people, she mused, were not the quitting kind. There was fire and fight in the eyes of that boy Renny, and a savage defiance behind the haunted look of Victor Mason. Poverty and lack of ambition, she felt, were not the cause of their disintegration. Gingerly her hand went to her bandaged scalp, and felt of the strapped ankle. Skilled hands had done that work, not those of a drunken idler. Something else had weakened the spines of these Masons. Some shadow. Nameless and forbidding, hung over this old house into which fate had dumped her on a rainy afternoon. "The Mason family secret,” the old hag had called mockingly as Victor went out. What secret?
Quite clearly Marcia knew all at once that Victor Mason, ex-doctor, was horribly afraid of something, as was his nervous violent little brother Renny. Fear like an obscene fungus sprouted from the very walls of this old house. Marcia shivered, hunched down in the huge bed—and her imagination groped with a trembling hand through darkness for what the answer might be...
A slight sound made her glance up, heart pounding.
The half-open door was swinging slowly wider. Marcia stopped breathing. And then her breath came out in a whoosh of relief.
A young girl of perhaps sixteen stood in the doorway. Barefoot, dirty, her frail body clad only in a sleeveless one-piece dress of cheap cotton, there was yet an exquisite faery quality about her that made Marcia’s heart turn over. Uncombed blond hair fell shoulder-length, framing a thin sensitive face with the dreamy startled eyes of a fawn. Tensed, like a wild thing poised for flight, the girl took a step into the room—and another, and another until she stood a few feet from the bed. She stared at Marcia, lips parted in child-like wonder, hands clasped at her breast.
"Oh, you’re pretty!” Her voice was a timid whisper. "You didn’t really come to take me away. Did you? And let them lock me up?”
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