“It can’t be,” Linda gasped. “The cats didn’t notice.”
“There is a circle of protection woven about this house,” Andrea chanted. The effect was only slightly marred by her stagger as she crossed the room to put down her basket and lay her cloak aside.
“Where was it?” Michael asked.
“Under the white lilac bush at the side of the house.” Fumbling in a cupboard, Andrea accepted his presence without question. She straightened up with a bottle in her hand, jerked out the cork, and put the bottle to her lips. She drank deeply, her prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. When she lowered the bottle she shuddered, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“I needed that,” she said. “Have some?”
“No, thanks,” Michael said.
“Suit yourself.”
Andrea put the bottle down on the table. Michael’s eyes moved from it to Andrea, to Linda, and then off into space; and Linda knew that he had deduced the source of her private liquor supply. He must have wondered about that…
Andrea got a glass from the cupboard and poured herself a stiff drink. Michael moved, as if in protest; and Andrea gave him a hostile glance.
“Need this,” she muttered. “Had a bad shock.”
“Why a shock?” Michael asked coldly. “You’re the one who believes in demons.”
Andrea collapsed onto the nearest chair. A cat left it, in the nick of time.
“Poor Tommy,” Andrea crooned, reaching out an unsteady hand. “Did Mama hurt the baby?”
Michael’s mouth curled expressively, and Linda turned on him.
“Leave her alone! She’s not young, and her heart isn’t too good.”
“Nothing wrong with my heart,” Andrea said decisively. She shoved the bottle away and set her empty glass down with a thud. “I said I needed that, and I did. As for you, Mr. Collins, if you’re such a pretty little skeptic, what the hell are you doing here? Stooging for the great Gordon Randolph? The delectable decoy, to lead her out into his waiting-claws?”
Michael took a step toward her and stopped himself with an effort that left him shaking.
“Sit down,” Andrea said gruffly. “I take it back. If you are a decoy, you’re an unwitting one. I know what you’re thinking-this crazy old bat has corrupted the innocent girl with her weird ideas of witchcraft. Baby, I didn’t give Linda the idea. She gave it to me. And, God help me, I didn’t believe her until tonight. I saw him. I knew him. He’s waiting out there, waiting for her. He can’t get in. Not yet. But he’s summoning his powers. Can’t you feel them, growing, feeding on evil? Soon he’ll be strong enough. Soon he’ll come.”
The high, crooning voice was semihypnotic. Crouched in her chair, monotonously stroking the black cat that had sprung to her lap, Andrea cast a spell of conviction. Michael shook himself.
“I thought you said you had a protective spell around the house,” he said.
“Ordinary white magic, against ordinary intruders. This isn’t ordinary. He’s strong. Very strong. But it takes time to build up the power. It’s building now. Can’t you feel it? I can feel it. Like electricity in the air. When it’s strong enough-then he’ll come for her.”
The cat’s fur crackled under her moving hand.
“What does he want?” Michael demanded. “Damn it, there has to be a reason, even if it’s a crazy reason. What is he after?”
Linda felt like a spectator, or a piece of meat over which two merchants were haggling. She hated the feeling, but she could not fight it; the force of the other personalities was too strong. They faced one another like duelists. Michael’s fists were clenched. Andrea’s weapons were more subtle-the crooning voice, the air of conviction.
“He’s after her soul,” she said softly. “Her immortal soul. His own is already in pawn to the powers of darkness. He wants hers, not to redeem his own, but to suffer with him, in flames, through eternity.”
Michael turned away.
“That’s insane.”
“Why should you stop at that, when you’ve accepted so much?” Andrea asked, in the same insidious whine. “You came here to save her, didn’t you? Oh, you don’t need to answer; I know, I know it all. I’ve seen the thread, the silver thread that binds the two of you. It’s knotted and tarnished now, but there’s no break in it. It will bind you forever, into death and beyond. It drew you here, to her side, when she needed you.”
Andrea stood up. The cat slid down like a pool of viscous ink. There was a power in the old woman, if only the power of her belief. It forced Michael to face her.
“But you can’t save her,” she said. “Love is a strong force, the purity of the soul is stronger; but nothing can avail against the powers of darkness except the concentrated power of good. And only I can control that power. I can save her. And I will! All my life, all my studies, have led me toward this moment.”
Michael spoke to Linda. He had himself under control now; there was even a certain compassion in his face as he glanced at the old woman.
“Will you stay here, with her?” he asked. “Or will you come with me, now? The choice is yours, Linda. It has to be yours.”
Linda hesitated. The tone of his appeal reached her, drawing on some core of sanity and strength. The appeal of being allowed-no, forced-to decide her own fate was something only she could fully appreciate, after years of life with Gordon. Michael waited patiently for her to answer, but Andrea did not.
“No, no,” she shrieked. Rushing toward Linda, she caught at the girl’s shoulders with both hands. They felt like bird’s claws, fragile and fleshless.
“You can’t go out there,” she whimpered. “Don’t think it, don’t dream it. He doesn’t understand. He wants you, he wants you for himself, to save you for himself and keep you. Make him stay. He can help. He can help if he will, he’s strong and young… But if he will go, don’t go with him. Stay, I’ll save you. Andrea will save you, she knows…”
“All right,” Linda said. “All right, Andrea.”
She turned to Michael.
“I can’t go,” she said. “It isn’t only because of Andrea. I’m afraid, Michael. I’m afraid to go out into the dark-even with you.”
She knew that Andrea’s hysteria had convinced Michael, but not in the way she had hoped. The very wildness of Andrea’s appeal had swayed his mind back toward rational rejection. If there ever was an obvious picture, this is it, Linda thought dully-a crazy old woman and a weak-minded young one. She wondered how much of her decision to stay was due to her pity for Andrea rather than fear-and how much to her instinctive recoil from one of Andrea’s statements: “He wants you for himself.”
“We’ll stay, then,” Michael said. “If that’s what you want. I guess it can’t do any harm.”
Her purpose achieved, Andrea turned brisk and businesslike. The volte-face was so sudden that Linda was left wondering, futilely, how much of Andrea was real and how much was calculated theatricalism.
“We must begin,” Andrea said, rubbing her hands together. “At once. The time is short. Purification. It must be symbolic, I daren’t let you out of my sight. Come along, both of you.”
Andrea’s workroom, as she called it, was a small separate building, once a shed or outdoor kitchen, now connected to the house by a lowceilinged passageway. Linda heard Michael’s gasp, and sympathized; if the kitchen had been picturesque, this room came straight out of the ages of alchemy.
Its single window was heavily draped. There were no electric lights. Andrea moved about lighting candles-candles in bottles, candles in tall brass candlesticks, candles stuck onto saucers in puddles of grease, candles in glass-covered brackets on the wall. In their eerie, moving light, the room looked even more uncanny than it did by daylight.
A long, rough table was completely covered with a fantastic collection of miscellany, from papers of all sizes, shapes, and colors, to samples of dried vegetation. Small baskets, boxes, and ordinary brown paper bags were strewn about. One pile of papers, whose vivid colors a
nd angular shapes suggested Japanese origami creations, was held down by a human skull. Another, narrower, table had oddly shaped glass bottles and beakers, filled with colored liquids, like those in an old-fashioned pharmacist’s window. The contents of the flasks glowed, lambent in the mellow candle-light-sea blue, crimson, gold, and green. Rough wooden shelves along one wall held a collection of crumbling leather books. The walls, of whitewashed, unfinished planks, were hung with drawings and diagrams. Dominating the room, on the wall opposite the door, was a huge medieval crucifix with its tormented Image, flanked by glass-covered candle sconces. The center of the floor was empty and uncarpeted and almost without varnish after centuries of traffic. The air in the room was close and stale, permeated by a cloyingly sweet smell.
As soon as the candles were lighted, Andrea fumbled in the basket she had brought with her. Another scent, pungently different but equally unpleasant, wafted forth to war with the stench of stale incense. Linda recognized it; her guess was confirmed when Andrea scooped up a double handful of small whitish-gray bulbs. She opened her hands and the bulbs separated, like the Dutch chocolate apples which are made up of pre-formed slices; but instead of dropping to the floor, the segments of garlic hung from her hands, suspended on long pieces of twine.
Michael sneezed.
“God bless you,” Andrea said, with the force of an incantation.
She draped the threaded cloves of garlic over the window and the threshold of the closed door. Michael watched silently. Linda watched Michael. She saw, with growing despair, that the pendulum of his thinking had swung back, toward the rational world and away from her. Andrea’s mumbo jumbo had destroyed his sensitivities; his hostility and distaste for her were so strong that he couldn’t feel that dreadful reality behind the ritual. Linda felt it even more strongly here, in this frail wooden box that was exposed to the night on all four sides. No. Not four sides-five. On the roof, the rain drummed with importunate demand; but above the normal pressure of the storm, Linda was conscious of other forces gathering, closing in.
When the garlic was in place, Andrea went to a cupboard and took out a flask, crossing herself as she did so.
“Sit over there,” she ordered brusquely, indicating the spot with a jerk of her head. “In the middle of the floor. Take some cushions from that corner. We’ll be here for a good long time.”
Michael muttered something under his breath, but obeyed. As he and Linda seated themselves, Andrea anointed the doors and windows with liquid from the flask and then, walking backward, dribbled the contents of the flask in a wide circle around the seated pair. She was careful to stay within the circle. When it was closed, a dark, unbroken wetness on the worn boards of the floor, she came to Linda.
“Hold out your hands,” she ordered, and poured a few drops of the remaining liquid into Linda’s cupped palms. As she directed, Linda touched the water to her forehead. Michael followed the same procedure, reluctance slowing his movements.
Andrea scrambled to her feet. She seemed to have regressed, both mentally and in time; hobbling, mumbling, she might have stepped out of a sixteenth-century village street-the wise woman, the white witch, Old Mother Demdike. She took a piece of chalk from one of the pockets concealed in her ample skirts and crawled around the interior circumference of the circle of holy water, scribbling designs and symbols onto the floor-boards, taking care not to touch the dark dribble of wetness. When she had finished, she crouched down on the floor facing the other two, and poured the last few drops of water into her right hand, crossing herself repeatedly. Her scarlet skirts made a puddle of bright color in the candlelight; her back was curved. The drone of her voice was unbroken except for quick, shallow breaths that came faster and faster and reminded Linda unpleasantly of an animal panting.
Gradually, as Linda watched the old woman’s intent face and glazing eyes, the drone of her voice and the monotonous drumming of the rain blended into a single soft whine, like the buzz of a giant insect. Linda’s cramped legs grew numb. She tried to move her hand and found it would not respond to her will. The man beside her, the other objects in the room, drew back and lost reality. There was nothing else in the universe except the mingled drone of voice and rain, and the steadily mounting pressure of an invisible force.
The room seemed darker-or were her eyes failing? The low sound was inside her head now, reverberating against the bony dome of her skull. She could hardly feel the wooden floor under her bent legs, but every inch of her skin tingled with the force. It was as if the encompassing air had grown heavier, or as if she were newly sensitized to its constant, unfelt pressure. A picture began to form behind her eyes. She saw the room in miniature, like a small cube of light in the midst of towering, indistinct shapes of darkness, which surrounded it like storm clouds. Featureless and black, yet living, they leaned in over the frail walls; but within, another force moved and grew, holding back the dark. She saw it all, in that moment, as a cosmic manifestation-the struggle of light against darkness. Across the world and the ages the battle raged, unseen, with the balance swaying now to one side and now to the other. In their small microcosm of the universe, the scales were balanced; but the struggle was not static. The pans dipped and swayed as the opposing strengths changed to counter each other’s weight. She could not see beyond the darkness; but within the light, the power emanated from one hunched figure. She herself was not part of that cosmic struggle; she was only a pawn, a fly trapped by two great winds, an animal caught between two armies massed for battle…
Deep down inside her dazed consciousness, a small spark of outrage flared. True or false, a cosmic vision or a fancy of hysteria, that view of the universe was not to her liking. She would not surrender her will, even to good, without a voice in the decision. Linda made the greatest effort of her life-an effort all the harder because it was without a physical counterpart. It was like pushing, with her mind, against a barred and bolted door. Then something gave way, with an almost audible snap, and the room flashed back into focus.
Michael’s hand clasped hers; she felt the pain of his grasp now. He was not looking at her, but at Andrea; his face was as white as paper. As Linda turned dazed eyes on the old woman, Andrea’s voice faltered, caught, and stopped. The rain pounded on the roof in a roar of water. Linda saw the candle flames swaying like live things trying to escape from an attacker. The gritty boards of the floor were harsh against her bare legs. Only one residue of her vanished vision remained: the consciousness of pressures mounting, building up to a tension that could not hold. Like an overload on an electrical system…Sooner or later something would blow.
Andrea raised clawed hands to her throat. Her mouth gaped open. She made hoarse sounds, her eyes bulged. Then her hands fell, and for a dreadful moment she balanced on hands and knees, head dangling, like a sick animal. Knees and elbows gave way; she rolled over onto her side and lay still.
The storm rose up, howling with wild winds around the eaves, battering at the walls. As Linda sat frozen, staring at the old woman’s empty eyes and still face, Michael got to his feet. He staggered as his numbed legs took his weight, and then leaned forward over Andrea’s body. When he turned, Linda knew what he was going to say.
“She’s dead. We must-good God Almighty!”
The impact of the mighty wind was strong enough to break the window; but it was not wet air that came through the shattered pane in one great leap. Michael’s left arm swept out, catching Linda as she stood up, and throwing her back against the wall. Most of the candles died in the gust of rain and wind. The pair that flanked the crucifix wavered and held. Pressed against the same wall, her body aching with the violence of the impact, Linda saw him go down, buried under the solid black mass of the thing that had come through the window. It made no sound, none that she could hear over the agonized wail of the storm, which was whistling through some crevice in the broken glass with a noise like that of a pipe or whistle. And there was another sound-the sound of Michael’s gasps, as he fought for his life.
Chapter 9
I
LINDA’S OUTFLUNG HAND TOUCHED AN OBJECT, and she seized it without looking to see what it was. She felt only its weight and convenience of shape, fit for grasping; she wanted a weapon, and that was how she used it, swinging it high and bringing it down with all her strength. If it struck home, she never felt the impact; at the same moment the air erupted like a volcano, deafening her with sound, blinding her eyes, shaking the floor under her feet. Swaying, her hands over her dazzled eyes, she heard the echoes roll and die. Echoes of thunder…The lightning bolt must have struck the roof, or something just outside.
Linda opened her eyes. Through the chaos of wind and rain, the two small lights on the wall burned steadily.
Andrea’s body lay huddled on the floor, grotesquely tumbled by the struggle that had gone on over it. Michael was on the floor too, flat on his back, his arm thrown up across his face. The curtains billowed at the broken window; a branch protruded like a bony arm through the gap between the torn curtains. The big oak tree outside the window had been the lightning’s target. There was nothing else. Whatever else had been in the room, it was gone.
On the floor beside Michael lay the crucifix, which she had used as a club. It was cracked, straight across the stem.
She went to Michael and bent over him. His eyes were closed. His sleeve, and the arm under it, were shredded. Blood dripped down and formed in a dreadful pool beside his head. But the gesture had saved his life. The dog had gone for his throat.
He opened his eyes when she touched him.
“It’s gone,” she said quickly, feeling him stiffen under her hands as memory returned.
“Gone? How?”
“I don’t know. I hit it-with that.” She touched the crucifix. “But the last lightning flash was so violent that it stunned me for a few seconds. It hit the tree outside the window, and-” She broke off, her eyes widening with a new fear. “Michael, there’s fire out there. I can see the light. The rain is stopping, too.”
The Dark on the Other Side Page 17