Meet a Dark Stranger

by Jennifer Wilde

  Becky cocked her head to one side and grinned mischievously. “I had an adventure,” she told me. “There was this man in the fields. He was wearing brown-and-red-checked tweeds and the silliest green cap. He had a pair of binoculars, too, and he followed me, Janie. Liz told me all about dirty old men, but I thought she was making it up. He was a dangerous looking character, just waiting to prey on an innocent little girl. I wasn’t afraid, though. Not a bit,” she added proudly.

  “What happened?” I asked in a flat voice.

  “Oh, I led him a merry chase. He followed me across the fields, pretending not to, of course, but every time I turned around he was ambling behind, trying to look casual. When I reached the woods, I backtracked, gave him the slip. I could hear him thrashing about through the trees as I went on to the house. He wasn’t in sight when I came back home. For all I know he’s still looking for me.”

  Becky giggled, delighted at the idea. I was in complete control now, shock, alarm, all reactions carefully contained. Strolling over to the window, I peered out at the sundrenched back lawn, then stepped over to the dressing table and opened the briefcase. Everything was there. Nothing had been taken, nothing disturbed. I had to know more, yet I couldn’t let Becky suspect anything.

  “Tell me about this old house,” I said carefully, idly picking up an illustration and examining it.

  “It’s a wonderful place!” she exclaimed. “All full of bats and things. It’s a ruin, you know, windows broken out, roof sagging, cobwebs and dust everywhere. It’s in a tiny clearing in the woods. No one’s lived there in ages.”

  “Sounds fascinating. I’d like to see it some time.”

  “Would you? I could take you there! We could go now. Maybe we’ll run into that dirty old man!”

  “I’m rather tired,” I protested. “Besides, it’s after four. We’ll see it some other time.”

  “Aw, come on, Janie! It isn’t far.”

  I was determined to see the place. Pretending an indifference I was far from feeling, I continued to protest, finally giving in to her and admitting a walk might be rather relaxing. Becky wanted to take the gun, and when I forbade it she complained bitterly. I said we should forget the whole thing. Grumbling, she agreed to leave the weapon behind, and a few minutes later we were strolling across the fields under an arching blue sky, goldenrod and sunflowers almost waist high on either side of the path. I pretended to be lethargic, a dreamy expression on my face, and Becky tugged at my hand impatiently, chattering excitedly, keeping her eye peeled for the man in the green cap.

  “I still think I should have brought the gun,” she declared. “He’s bound to be lurking somewhere, just waiting to pounce!”

  “Nonsense. Chances are the man was perfectly harmless. Keith said he saw a bird watcher earlier on—no doubt it was the same man.”

  “If you’d seen him you wouldn’t say that. Oh, he was fierce-looking, Janie, practically watering at the mouth! I can’t wait to tell Liz. She’ll be ever so jealous—”

  We had crossed perhaps half a mile of fields before reaching the woods that loomed up suddenly, thick and rather forbidding after the sunsplashed acres of flowers. I had played in them as a child, of course, but I didn’t remember their being quite so dark, so close. Limbs arched overhead, shutting out the sunlight, and the ground underfoot was damp and spongy, dry leaves crackling as we moved over them. It was a world of dark, flickering shadows, rough brown bark, rustling green leaves and thick underbrush. Small animals scurried out of sight as we approached. Birds called to one another in warning. Becky led the way, moving confidently, still chattering, apparently oblivious to the sinister atmosphere. Perhaps it was just nerves, but I had a feeling that hostile eyes were watching us, an impression as real as the odor of damp wood and mould.

  It had been folly to come. Sheer folly. I realized that now. There was no sign whatsoever of the policeman.

  “Per—perhaps we’d better turn back now,” I suggested.

  “We’re almost there. You’re not scared, are-ya?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I said crisply.

  “If he tries to grab anyone, it’ll be me,” she said merrily, as though in consolation. “Dirty old men don’t fancy grown women, just little girls. I say, Janie, wouldn’t it be something if he was hidin’ at the house? I do wish you had let me bring the gun—”

  The woods began to thin a bit, and a moment or so later we stepped into a small clearing. The house loomed up dark and menacing, broken chimneys reaching toward the sky. Surrounded by only the barest patch of lawn, it was two stories high with a large attic and in a state of total decay. The roof, once red, sagged deplorably, a whole section of it caved in, and the wooden walls were dingy gray, festooned with ivy. Broken windows seemed to stare like sightless eyes, revealing the blackness within. Starlings had built their nests under the eaves of the veranda, and several of the posts were missing, causing it to sag dangerously. I viewed it with alarm, knowing that nothing on earth could induce me to go inside. To my horror, Becky pulled her hand from my grip and scampered up the front steps, disappearing through the yawning doorway almost before I knew what had happened.

  “Becky!” I cried.

  She didn’t answer. I was beginning to panic when she finally poked her head out of one of the windows.

  “Come on in,” she cried. “There’s no one here.” She sounded disappointed.

  “I—I’d just as soon not,” I told her.

  “Don’t be silly, Janie. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  A couple of minutes ago I had reflected that nothing on earth could induce me to go inside. I hadn’t counted on Becky. I couldn’t have my niece thinking me a quavering coward. She’d never let me live it down. Damn the minx, I thought angrily, moving apprehensively through the doorway. Inside all was dim and shadowy, ancient wallpaper peeling to reveal the bare wooden planks beneath, cobwebs billowing overhead, dust a good inch thick on the floor. A sagging staircase led up to the first story. A doorway on my right led into what once must have been the parlor. Becky took my hand again, said it was a shame we’d missed the man who’d followed her, warned me about spiders and casually mentioned that the bats wouldn’t bother me if I didn’t bother them. This did little to improve my state of mind.

  “I found the briefcase in here,” she said, leading the way through the doorway on the right.

  To my surprise, the parlor, if indeed that’s what it was, was radiant with sunlight, long beams astir with motes pouring down from above. Looking up, I could see a patch of blue sky and realized this room was directly below the section where the roof had caved in. Jagged, rotten planks dangled down where the floors of attic and first story had been. Evidently the roof had fallen all the way down to the basement, carrying the other sections of flooring with it, for there was a great gaping hole in the center of this room, too, perhaps ten feet in circumference. Stepping over to the edge, I peered down to see a great heap of rotten boards and torn red shingles twelve feet below, the concrete floor of the basement invisible beneath. Shuddering, I stepped back quickly.

  “There’re some cigarette butts on the floor,” Becky remarked. “Hmmm, two different brands. There’s a newspaper, too. Monday’s. Someone’s been here. Two people, at least.”

  I spied the bit of cloth almost immediately. It was white, a tiny rag clinging to a protruding nail. He must have backed against the wall, caught his trench coat on the nail and torn the garment as he pulled away. I stood there looking at it, my blood icy cold. The malevolent atmosphere seemed to grow, to swell. Cobwebs swayed from the rafters. Bats squeaked. The old house seemed to have a voice, and that voice cried out, warning me, telling me to flee, quickly, quickly. I caught my breath. I took Becky’s hand and led her out of the room, out of the house, so abruptly that she had no time to protest, and it was only after we had cleared the woods and were crossing the fields with the house in sight that I slackened my pace.

  11

  Long accustomed to the idiosyncrasies
of adults, maiden aunts in particular, Becky had little to say about our hasty and undignified departure from the ruined house, although we’d hardly stepped through the door before she raced to tell her sister all about it, claiming I had been scared out of my wits and dashed off like a colt, visibly trembling with fear and afraid the man in the green cap would leap out from every bush. I listened to this libel with some dismay, but Liz merely yawned, put down her book and indifferently inquired what man she was referring to. Becky eagerly described the leering eyes, the snarling mouth, the frenzied and unbridled lust that had prompted the fiend to pursue her over hill and dale. Highly stimulated by this account, Liz was of the opinion that they should both go out and look for him immediately, a suggestion I promptly vetoed. They were chattering away a mile a minute as I stepped into the kitchen.

  Quite calm now, I fully realized the importance of my discovery. If the old house had been used as a meeting place before, it might very well be used again. Making certain that the girls were still regaling each other with bloodcurdling accounts of molestation, I picked up the extension telephone in the kitchen and dialed the police station, asking for Constable Clark. When I told him what I had seen, he listened with great interest. I could almost see him nodding as he scribbled notes on one of his pads. Evans, he said, had been in a panic when he lost the child in the woods, had stumbled back out into the fields just in time to see her traipsing into the house and was currently at home in bed smeared with various lotions and nursing a most annoying reaction to stinging nettles. Another man, he informed me, was filling in for the ailing Evans, wearing the same outfit and complaining vehemently about having to don such preposterous headgear. Constable Clark said he was pleased that I had recovered the manuscript, in however unorthodox a fashion, and after reassuring me that I was doing a bang-up good job and was in absolutely no danger, he rang off. I felt much better after talking to him, determined not to let this afternoon’s adventure spoil my evening.

  Becky came sauntering into the kitchen a few minutes later, obviously disturbed about something. A deep frown creased her brow. Her dark brown eyes were filled with concern.

  “What’s the matter, pet?”

  “My notebook—” she began hesitantly.

  “Notebook?”

  “The one I keep all my information in. It’s missing. I can’t find it anywhere. I went upstairs to jot down some notes about this afternoon, and it—it wasn’t in my hip pocket. I always keep it there—”

  “Perhaps you left it in your room.”

  “I looked. I looked everywhere.”

  “I shouldn’t worry, pet. Perhaps you dropped it.”

  “Maybe so,” she said doubtfully. “It’s very important, Janie.”

  “I’m sure it is, luv. It probably dropped out of your pocket while you were playing in the back garden. We’ll look for it tomorrow. It’s bound to turn up.”

  “Well—I guess there’s no sense fretting. You’ll help me look for it? You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Considerably relieved, she sighed, the frown vanishing, then nosed about to see what I intended to cook for dinner. After making half-a-dozen suggestions that were far beyond my culinary abilities, she finally scampered out, as noisy and cheerful as ever.

  All three of my charges grumbled about dinner, an ignominious affair of heated TV dinners served in their aluminium containers, and afterwards, when they learned they were to spend the evening at the movies, each reacted in individual fashion. Keith nodded calmly, said he had always admired Gary Cooper and thought it was a smashing idea. Becky was delighted at the prospect of more cinematic violence, confident that Cagney and crew would be dexterous in the use of machine guns, and Liz, who positively detested Westerns and wasn’t that wild about old crime films either, begged to be informed what she had done to deserve such a fate. Other people, she added pointedly, could go jaunting off to dances and such and enjoy themselves immensely without giving a moment’s consideration to anyone else, and she was elaborating on this theme as I went upstairs to dress.

  An hour and a half later, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror to examine the transformation I had managed to achieve. My hair was gathered on top of my head in sculptured curls, two small ringlets dangling down over my temples in chic fashion. I had achieved what I hoped was subtle artistry in the application of makeup, and the dress was nothing short of sensational. Of cream-colored raw silk, it was striped with gold, bronze, and yellow. The halter bodice was entirely backless and the skirt swirled in full-gathered folds of rustling material. I looked like a glamorous fashion model, not myself at all, but while I might be just a bit ill at ease in such a sophisticated garment, I was confident I could carry it off with complete aplomb. Wrapping the fringed cream silk stole about my arms, I picked up the glittering evening bag and went down to be inspected by the children.

  Keith withheld comment, clearly not enchanted by the vision of loveliness his comfortable aunt presented. Becky said I was likely to catch cold and asked why I wanted to wear such a silly dress, while Liz, still sulking, claimed I looked exactly like an expensive call girl and could expect to be mobbed by rapacious undergraduates who’d try to get me outside to the parking lot for indecent conduct in the back seats of their Volkswagens. Not entirely elated by these comments, I told them to get their coats on as Ron would be here any minute now and added with some asperity that I considered all three of them deplorably rude and shabby.

  The look in Ron’s eyes as I ushered him into the hall did much to restore my confidence. He gave a long, low whistle, jestingly suggested we forget the dance and go straight to a hotel and claimed it was fortunate he knew a bit about boxing as he’d have to fight the other men off. He looked exceedingly glamorous himself in dark tuxedo and white tie, as comfortable in formal attire as he would have been in sweat shirt and jeans. The girls chattered as we drove to the theater, and when Liz inadvertently mentioned Stephen, Keith threw her a venomous look that shushed her immediately. After informing them that Mr. Brent would undoubtedly come to spend the night again after the dance was over, I had once more admonished them to keep his presence a secret. Any such endeavor was always risky with a chatterbox like Liz, but fortunately Ron didn’t notice her slip.

  Parking the car in front of the theater, Ron insisted on accompanying them to the box office, buying their tickets and taking them in to the lobby to see that they were amply provided with chocolates and such. As he was doing this, I was pleased to see my afternoon shadow climb out of the nondescript blue car and buy a ticket himself, moving into the lobby on their heels. Ron came back out a minute or so later, climbed into the car and expressed pleasure at being alone with me at last.

  “The last feature’s over at eleven fifty-five,” he said, “and I told them we’d pick ’em up in front of the theater on the stroke of midnight. I must say, Jane, you smell delicious.”

  “You like my perfume?”

  “I like everything,” he said huskily, pulling away from the curb.

  “Liz claims I look like a call girl,” I told him. “I think it’s sour grapes, though. Lola Montez would have loved this dress.”

  “Undoubtedly. You’re going to be the belle of the ball, you know. College boys are notorious flirts. Bounders, too, most of ’em. You’ll want to watch yourself when they cut in.”

  “I will,” I promised. “I imagine you’ll get your share of attention, too. All those swinging young college girls, all those faculty women. I seem to remember Liz mentioning a certain Nancy Randolph—”

  “Miss Randolph is a voice teacher,” he informed me, “given to frilly dresses, fluttery gestures and gushing remarks of the most nauseating cuteness. Small and blonde and determinedly vivacious. Not my cup of tea.”

  “There’re bound to be others. Liz claims the female population of Abbotstown has lionized you from the moment you arrived. You’re sure to set hearts aflutter in that tuxedo.”

  “Think so?”

  “Definitely.”
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  Ron chuckled good-naturedly as he drove around the small parking lot behind the athletics building, hunting for an empty space. Eventually successful, he parked the car and helped me out. The night air was cool, and I pulled the silk wrap tightly around me to cover some of the bare expanse of back. Lights spilled out of the gymnasium windows and music replaced the usual academic silence—loud, brassy, extremely mod. Couples were swarming into the gym, the boys laughing boisterously and pounding one another on the back, the girls flushed with excitement and tittering with nervous anticipation. Although I really wasn’t all that much older than most of them, I felt distinctly apart from such youthful exuberance, allying myself with the older crowd filing in with more decorum.

  Designed by Sir Christopher Wren, the athletics building was a great, sprawling pile of gray brick and white portal stone, ornate and aged, originally a dormitory. The various apartments had been converted into a bewildering labyrinth of offices, studies and conference rooms, the vast dining hall into a modern gymnasium. It was decorated tonight with a multitude of crepe paper streamers and hundreds of colored balloons, the walls adorned with gigantic poster blowups of various pop stars.

  The dance floor was surrounded by potted plants and tables and chairs for the less active and more easily fatigued. This area was dominated by professors and their overdressed wives who exchanged faculty gossip as they sipped punch. The dance floor itself was a kaleidoscope of swirling color and movement where seemingly hundreds of couples twisted and jerked in what appeared to be the last stages of epilepsy. Hair flying wildly, girls in mini- and maxiskirts, feather boas and other outlandish garments gyrated with husky, robust lads whose formal jackets were already beginning to wilt. I was relieved when, a few minutes later, the combo began playing a slower and more conventional tune, determined to provide something for everybody.

  “Quite a spectacle, what?” Ron said, holding my elbow.

  “It certainly is,” I agreed. “I must warn you. I’m not up on all of these new dances—”