Smartass, thought Wickstrom. How smartass would you be without your money?
"We'll go to the third floor now," said Monckton, ignoring his employer's jibe. He didn't walk down the hall to the central staircase, but passed between the others and started up the dark servants' stairway again. "You probably won't spend too much time up here," said Monckton. "Most of the rooms are vacant, though we've put in a small gym at the end of this wing so you can exercise, and there's a large lounge with a stocked bar in the west wing.
The rest of the rooms consist of unused bedrooms and a children's playroom, and of course"—he hesitated—"the observatory in the north annex—"
"With closed dome, naturally," interrupted Neville, "but there are books on astronomy there if you're interested, and observational journals my grandfather kept. The nights are quite clear here. I suppose they were even clearer in the twenties." Neville cocked his head. "Are you a stargazer, Mr. McNeely?"
~*~
But McNeely wasn't listening. He was looking at Monckton, intrigued by his pause before mentioning the observatory. For McNeely, that hesitation, along with Monckton's involuntary glances upward during breakfast, had pinpointed Monckton's fear. The observatory.
"I'm sorry?" McNeely murmured.
"I just thought you'd be interested in my grandfather's astronomical journals," Neville said smoothly.
McNeely nodded. "Yes, I'll get to those right after my research on the rivers. But tell me," he went on, smiling inwardly at his remark, "are these vacant rooms accessible?"
"Yes," said Monckton. "All unlocked."
McNeely moved to the door on his left. "May I?”
“Feel free," replied Neville.
McNeely opened the door. He had easily deduced that this was the room out of which he had seen that intense white light beaming, and he was surprised now to find it empty. It was a small room, only fifteen feet square, and, by the looks of it, had never been occupied. There were no darker spaces where pictures had once hung, no thin scrapes on the bright wood floor where furniture had heavily passed. McNeely wondered anew exactly what he had seen through that innocent-looking window.
"Satisfied?" Neville said. McNeely nodded in response.
"I hate to bring this up," said Cummings, "but are there any contingencies for emergencies of any sort? I mean, what if one of us would get sick, or there were a fire, or . . . or we run out of gin," he added with a laugh.
"Mr. Cummings, you anticipate me brilliantly." Neville smiled. "I'll let Mr. Monckton demonstrate what would happen in that event."
Monckton led them back downstairs to the first floor once again. They stopped where the two wings met, between the billiard room and the sealed sunroom. There was a twenty-foot-wide horizontal wooden panel against the wall. Monckton turned a small knob in its center and it dropped down revealing four keyholes spaced six feet apart, and a telephone.
"This is your escape route," Monckton said in his cold, dispassionate voice. "If one of the party should be injured, the remaining four can open the doors and summon help by simultaneously turning keys in these locks. Another man and I will be at the cabin below, and we'll call you on this phone. The phone will be inoperable until that time."
"If, however," said Neville, "the keys are turned before the month is up, the three million dollars is forfeit, so we must all take very good care of one another."
"What's to insure," Wickstrom said, "that one of us wouldn't steal the others' keys and set the thing off by himself?"
"You'd need four very long arms for that, Mr. Wickstrom. Besides, the keys will be soldered on a chain around each of our necks before we start. The only way to get them all would be with a hacksaw."
"Or to remove the heads," McNeely said with a straight face. Wickstrom snorted a quiet laugh. The rest remained silent, though Cummings and Gabrielle smiled slightly.
"That hadn't occurred to me," replied Neville blandly, "but I suppose it would work." He turned toward the kitchen. "We'll examine our fire protection system now."
Crossing the wide white kitchen, he opened what looked like a closet door and started down a narrow flight of stairs. "Watch your step," he called up to them as they followed. They found themselves in a small cellar room with a concrete floor. Cans and jars of food lined the walls, and there was a large freezer in the corner purring steadily. "Part of our provisions," Neville said. "There are more in the pantry upstairs. This room, by the way, is called a cold cellar. Nothing to do with its temperature, really, just a local name." He passed through a door at the end of the room, leading them into a larger area. "We're under the Great Hall now. There are other cellars on the other side of those partitions under the wings. Back there''—he pointed toward the north end—''is the wine cellar. There are actually a few vintages left from my grandfather's time, most of them rare vinegar now, no doubt. But this is what I really want to show you."
At the southern end of the cellar was a thick steel door which Neville opened ponderously. "This is a fireproof ventilated chamber that we can use in the event of a fire. There's a month's worth of freeze-dried food and water for five, a chemical toilet, and cots. Mr. Monckton has assured me that the house above could be a roaring inferno, and the hottest we would feel would be ninety degrees."
"Reassuring," said Cummings. "Would we have to spend the entire time in here then?"
"If the fire were such that Mr. Monckton didn't notice it from the base of the mountain, yes."
"Jesus…” Wickstrom whispered.
"Mr. Wickstrom?"
"This is … this is just a little weird. I mean, are you serious about all this?"
Neville looked offended. "I'm dead serious, Mr. Wickstrom. But no one is forcing you into it."
"A million dollars packs an awful lot of force," Wickstrom answered.
"Please, gentlemen," said Renault, "why don't we return upstairs, where you three may decide among yourselves whether or not you wish to accept?"
The Nevilles, Monckton, and Renault led the three men back into the dining room. "Have another cup of coffee," Renault said kindly, "and when you've made your decision, simply come to the den. One more thing. It must be unanimous. You all stay, or no one stays."
"Well," said Cummings once the three were alone, "nothing like a final blockbuster. So what do you guys think? Go or stay?"
"I'd like to stay," answered McNeely.
"I'd like the million dollars," Wickstrom said, "but like I said, this is a really strange scene."
"He's eccentric, that's all," Cummings said comfortingly.
"No, Mr. Cummings, he's insane." McNeely sipped his coffee. The others looked at him questioningly.
"You don't mean that," said Cummings.
"I do. I've seen insane men in my profession. And David Neville is one. He's obsessed with this house. And with us."
Wickstrom started. "With us?"
"Haven't you noticed the sidelong glances he's been throwing each of us when he thinks we're not looking? It's like he's hungry."
"Oh, come on, McNeely!" Cummings rose and walked down the table toward the bigger man. "This place is goofy enough without your imagining things!" He paused. "Wait a minute—you'd stay anyway?"
"I intend to. Neville doesn't frighten me. I think I can handle him. If not me, then certainly the three of us together."
"Good. Then it's settled."
Wickstrom cleared his throat. "I haven't said I'll stay yet."
"Jesus Christ!" exploded Cummings. "What do you mean? There's no work here, no danger—the million's a gift along with a month's vacation!"
"I don't know," Wickstrom said, shaking his head. "There's something not right here."
"Mr. Wickstrom," McNeely said, "you're right. There is something strange about this house. I don't claim to either believe or disbelieve in the supernatural, but when I drove up this morning I saw an odd . . . manifestation." And he told them about the intense white light in the third floor room.
"Aw, the guy who parked the cars was righ
t," scoffed Cummings. "It must have been the sun reflecting off something."
"It wasn't the sun," said McNeely. "But even if it was something paranormal, so what? Lights can't harm us. I don't know much about the supernatural, but I'm fairly sure that there's no history of a spirit ever physically harming anyone."
"And how about going crazy?" said Wickstrom. "What about that poet? And the banker?"
"Stories, Wickstrom! Ghost stories!" Cummings threw up his hands in disgust. "Don't tell me you're gonna piss away a million dollars apiece for us because you believe in spooks?"
Wickstrom's cheeks reddened. "I didn't say that," he growled. "I just wanted a chance to think, that's all."
"Okay, you've had your chance. Now what do you say?"
Wickstrom looked full into Cummings's eyes, hating him. "I'll stay."
Cummings nodded brusquely. "Good. That's settled then."
"One thing," McNeely said. "I think we ought to stay very closely in touch with each other through the stay here. If we see anything peculiar—from Neville or his wife or anything else—we share it with the others. No surprises. Agreed?"
The other two nodded. Then they joined the NeviIles, Monckton, and Renault in the den. Monckton and the girl turned sharply when they entered, Renault casually, Neville, thought McNeely, like a snake eyeing its prey.
"We're staying," Cummings said, appointing himself spokesman.
"How nice." Neville chuckled.
McNeely made himself smile. "You seem to have expected that, Mr. Neville."
"I think I read men fairly well," he said, a challenge in his tone. "But I'm glad you're all staying," he went on more heartily, rising to his feet. "Simon?"
Renault handed a document to each of the men. "Please read them and sign, gentlemen. I think you'll find nothing to disapprove of."
The document spelled out all the conditions of which the three had been told, plus several more, one of which gave McNeely pause. "Could you be any more explicit," he asked, "about this fourteenth item, the part about performing any reasonable request that does not endanger us or others?"
"Not to be blunt, Mr. McNeely," said Neville, "but for the next month you three are servants, albeit highly paid ones. I don't intend to treat you like kitchen help, but my wife and I do intend to treat you as bodyguards. I think in that context the clause is clear enough, don't you? Are there any other questions? From any of you?"
There were not; the papers were quickly signed and went into Renault's briefcase. "Now the checks," Renault said. Wickstrom chose to keep his, while McNeely and Cummings both instructed Renault to deposit the sum in bank accounts.
"Your luggage has been taken to your rooms," said Neville. "Mr. McNeely, Mr. Wickstrom, you will be in the Bear and Whitetail Suites in the west wing. Mr. Cummings will be in the east wing in the Eagle Suite. I'm sure you'll find the accommodations satisfactory. Now, if you'll just give your wristwatches to Mr. Renault . . ." They took off the watches and saw them disappear into Renault's briefcase. "Say goodbye to time, gentlemen," Neville said, "to the sun and moon and all that, and say hello to the long night of The Pines, and whoever dwells within."
"For your sake, Mr. Neville," said McNeely, "I hope no one's oiled the doors. A little creaking would complement your dialogue."
~*~
A short time later Monckton and Renault said their farewells to the rest and left through the front door. Then the four men went to the locking unit at the end of the Great Hall and took out the keys that Monckton had just soldered around their necks. At Neville's instructions, they each placed a key in the proper hole and turned it.
The house shook as dozens of steel shutters simultaneously crashed down across windows and doors, closing the occupants off from the morning sun. All five stood rooted for a minute in the half-light, listening to the silence of the house. Wickstrom was the first to speak.
"You hear it?" he whispered.
"Yes." Gabrielle knew what he meant. "The wind. I hear the wind in the pines."
They all listened. Somehow through the thick steel, through the stone walls, they could hear the soft sighing of the needles as the cool fall wind danced among them.
"This is wrong," said Neville slowly, and McNeely heard more than ordinary concern in his voice. "It was supposed to be soundproof."
"Then listen," McNeely said. "If it's not, we should be able to hear the cars leaving."
They couldn't. Although they stood listening for a long time, all they heard was the rush of the wind.
Cummings laughed hollowly. "What are we all so uptight for? It's just a . . . a natural phenomenon, that's all. Probably coming from above—the trees are higher than the roof. That's why we can hear the wind but not the cars. Right?"
Just then a new sound began. At first it was so low that no one was sure they really heard it, and they looked at one another for confirmation. Then it began to increase in volume and frequency, until the might of it made the stone floor shiver beneath their feet. It came in waves of low and high, evenly spaced at first, but finally the high pitch won out, shrieking about them with just an occasional dip to a lower timbre.
It sounded like the laughter of a god.
They pressed their hands over their ears, but the sound cut through their palms like a scythe through a tissue and they began to scream as one in an involuntary attempt to drown out with their own cries the laughter that tore through The Pines, shook their sanity, and rattled halfway down the mountain to where Whitey Monckton looked up from the road and stopped the car. Simon Renault stiffened in the seat beside him.
"Did you … ?" Renault began. "I thought I heard something just now. You heard it too?"
"Thunder," Monckton said, unable to keep the thrill out of his voice. "Thunder, Simon."
Renault leaned forward to where he could look up at the sky through the windshield and the screen of pines. "There are no clouds," he said. "The sky is blue."
"Distant thunder then," Monckton replied, thinking that the sky would not be blue in The Pines. He put the car in gear and continued down the road, faster now, as if to get beyond the range of the huge voice he had heard booming from above, and the small voice within him that perversely whispered a siren song to turn the car around and drive back up to the mountaintop, where the laughter was just beginning.
Part II
I readily believe that there are more invisible beings in the universe than visible. But who will declare to us the nature of all these, the rank, relationships, distinguishing characteristics, and qualities of each? What is it they do? Where is it they dwell?
—Thomas Burnet,
ArchaeologiaePhilosophicae
Chapter Three
"Someone is happy we're here." McNeely's voice sounded harsh against the sudden silence. The huge laughter had died away and the five of them were coming out of their individual protective postures, all sense of unity lost in the unexpected shock of the situation. Gabrielle Neville was expressionless, and McNeely wondered if she had gone into shock. Wickstrom and Cummings were both looking about fearfully, near-panic etched in the lines around their eyes and mouths.
David Neville was smiling. It was not the snide demeaning smile he'd worn before, but rather an expression of jubilation mixed with a religious wonder. "It's true," he said, and the echo of the words made McNeely realize how akin the Great Hall was to a temple. "Dear God in heaven, it's true. There is something here. . . ."
"Jesus," said Cummings, "I don't know how you did that, Mr. Neville, but it certainly scared the hell out of me."
"I didn't do anything."
"Come on now, it was a sound system or something, wasn't it? Big speakers, like that Sensurround thing, right?"
"There weren't any speakers," Neville replied, his face still enraptured as he looked up at the dark vaulted ceiling high above.
McNeely frowned. "Maybe not. But I'm sure you won't mind if we look for them just the same."
Finally Neville looked at them. He seemed slightly irritated at the
way his attention was being drawn away from what he sought. "Suit yourself. Look all you want. You'll find no speakers, no radios, TVs, stereos—nothing to amplify sound. What we just heard was something that no man—no living man—produced."
"Why. . ." said Wickstrom, swallowing heavily, "why was it laughing?"
Gabrielle finally spoke, and McNeely realized that what he had taken to be dulled shock had simply been intense concentration. "Perhaps Mr. McNeely was right. Perhaps it is happy that we're here. Why it should be happy, that I can't say."
Cummings laughed nonchalantly. "Probably hasn't had a bite to eat in decades—and here are five tasty morsels locked in for the duration."
"That may be more true than you realize, Mr. Cummings," said Neville with no trace of humor.
"Speaking of a bite to eat," McNeely said, "I hate to bring us back to the harsh realities, but are there any set times when we should eat together?"
"You are a pragmatist, Mr. McNeely."
"My stomach will calm down in a few hours, Mr. Neville."
"Since there is no time here, you may eat whenever you feel hungry," said Neville. "The kitchen is loaded with prepared foods and, of course, a dishwasher. If you want to keep track of the days by the number of meals you eat, go ahead and try. I don't think you'll succeed. In fact, at six A.M. on October thirty-first, when those plates shoot up, I expect we'll all be greatly taken by surprise."
There was a silence, then Gabrielle spoke. "Well, it's been a … long morning. I suppose we'll all want to get settled in our rooms and make ourselves comfortable."
"I think I could stand a nap." Cummings smiled. "It was a long night's drive up here." The others murmured agreement.
"If there's anything you need—linens or towels—let me know. I'll show you where to find them."
"I'll be in the den, Gabrielle," Neville said as he disappeared down the hall.
Gabrielle showed the three men to their suites, then returned downstairs. Neville was sitting in front of the cold fireplace in the den. "David?" Gabrielle called softly from the door. "Are you all right?"
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