"You-s-s-saw it?" gasped Sister Hyacinthe, clinging to the mantel.
Sister John looked down at her hands and saw that her knuckles were white where she gripped the candles. She thought, "How odd."
She must have spoken the words aloud because Sister Hyacinthe cried, "Odd! It was terrible!"
Sister John shook her head. "There is no such thing as a ghost, Sister Hyacinthe, although I must admit-" She stood up, flashlight in hand. "I think we'd better go up and hide Sister Ursula immediately."
"No one can hide from ghosts," pointed out Sister Hyacinthe despairingly. "I'm not stirring, I won't-" She stopped as a low moaning sound reached them from outside; a sound as melancholy and plaintive as the cry of a lost child. Without comment Sister John headed for the stairs with flashlight and candles. "Don't leave me!" gasped Sister Hyacinthe, and tore herself frown the mantel to follow.
Upstairs they found Sister Ursula looking pale and shaken, half out of bed and his coif askew. "Are we being attacked?" he asked. "What the hell's going on down there?"
"Into the closet," Sister John told him, and after one glance at her stern face he tottered across the floor to the closet, the flashlight was thrust into his hands and he was abandoned there.
"Now we'll double-check all the doors and windows," Sister John said.
"I w-w-wish w-w-we'd done it first," stammered Sister Hyacinthe.
"We didn't," pointed out Sister John, and returning to the top of the staircase came to an abrupt stop.
"What is it?" whispered Sister Hyacinthe, bumping into her.
Sister John blew out her candle, leaving only the flickering candles in the living room to illuminate the downstairs hall. "Listen."
That was when Sister Hyacinthe heard the footstep on the porch. It was a heavy step, followed by the protest of rotted wood beneath it and then the unmistakable sound of chains dragging slowly across the porch. Another step was taken and the rattle of chains repeated. Sister Hyacinthe clung to Sister John, shivering. Even Sister John, who didn't believe in ghosts, felt a chill run from the base of her spine to her scalp. The country silence had been profound, almost bottomless following the storm, and these unnatural sounds went beyond the rational to awaken ancient primitive terrors of the night. She too stood waiting.
The knock when it came was a soft tap on the door.
"He'll come in now," said Sister Hyacinthe, and swayed alarmingly against Sister John.
A moan rose and fell, like a dog whimpering at the door, and then the dragging steps were heard again, this time in retreat, and silence fell.
"We must check the doors," said Sister John resolutely, and grasping Sister Hyacinthe by the arm helped her down the stairs. "Sit," she told her, "while I make certain the door to the cellar is locked."
"Cellar!" cried Sister Hyacinthe in an anguished voice. "Oh, I couldn't bear it if they came up through the cellar, all dead and cobwebby. It's the spirit of the dead haunting us, Sister John, even Alfie said that people must have died violently here."
If Sister John heard her she gave no evidence of it; she was feeling her way through the dark to the cellar door. She turned the key in the ancient lock, listened a moment for sounds from the basement and, returning to Sister Hyacinthe, became aware of gentle tapping sounds at the dining-room window.
"This is ridiculous," she said angrily. "What's more it's undignified. Sister Hyacinthe, we're going to resume our places in the living room, light all the candles we have and sit there if the whole house falls down around us. Someone has a very macabre imagination."
"We'll go mad," pointed out Sister Hyacinthe. "They'll find us here tomorrow and we'll be nothing but gibbering idiots."
"Well, don't sound so pleased about it," Sister John said crossly, lighting more candles and distributing them around the room. "I think your imagination is a little macabre, too. Try having more faith, Sister Hyacinthe."
Sister Hyacinthe gave her a bleak, reproachful glance but was silenced. Candles lighted, Sister John took her place in the chair that faced both sets of windows, brought Brill's book to her lap and bent her attention to it. She read: Terror stalks the streets at night in any urban commmunity in America but even more corroding is the expectation of terror, with its resultant inhibiting factors: loss of faith in humanity, the lost spontaneity of a casual walk to the newsstand at midnight. Unfortunately, even locked inside an apartment there is no feeling of real security. There remains the dread of a hand at the window, a knock on the door . . .
Sister John firmly put the book down and reached instead for the Office of the Blessed Virgin. Across from her Sister Hyacinthe sat stiff as a poker in her highbacked chair, her eyes riveted on Sister John. She said through clenched teeth, "I think we're being watched, Sister John."
"I'm sure we are," said Sister John, nodding. "If I were a ghost I should feel quite snubbed if no attention was paid. I'm sure they-he-can see us quite clearly through the window."
"I wonder if my coif is straight."
"Quite straight, Sister Hyacinthe."
The shutter in the kitchen window banged hard against the house and something fell with a thud against the back door. The moaning began again, followed this time by soft, ghostly music.
"Harp," said Sister John in a pleasant voice. "I always did enjoy harp music."
"Must we sit here like this?" protested Sister Hyacinthe.
"Yes, it's good for our characters," replied Sister John, and turning to her book of office began to read aloud in a clear voice, " 'The Lord is protector of my life: of whom shall I be afraid? Whilst the wicked draw near against me to eat my flesh-' "
"Please," begged Sister Hyacinthe.
"-Mine enemies that trouble me have themselves been weakened . . ." She stopped, aware of a soft, luminous light floating past the window and when she resumed reading her voice was louder. " '. . . and have fallen. If armies in camp should rise up against me, in this will I be confident-' "
"What's happening?" asked Sister Hyacinthe, closing her eyes.
"The face is at the window again. No, no, don't look, Sister Hyacinthe."
The face dimmed and vanished and they sat in silence, waiting, but aside from one loud and piercing scream in the vicinity of the dining-room window there was a cessation of movement and sound outside. Sister John watched ten minutes crawl past on her watch and put down her book. "I think it's over."
Sister Hyacinthe warningly shook her head. "Not yet," she said, listening, but the voices they heard approaching the house now were normal voices in conversation. A moment later the screen door creaked and Alfie called, "Sister Hyacinthe, Sister John, are you all right?"
"A blessed sound," murmured Sister John, and rose from her chair to unlock the door.
When she opened it she found Brill, Alfie and Naomi staring at her in astonishment. "We heard a scream about ten minutes ago," said Naomi. "We came as fast as we could. What's happened to your lights?"
"Aren't the lights out everywhere?"
Brill shook his head. "Even the street light on Fallen Stump Road is shining." They stood brandishing flashlights, looking wonderfully alive, strong and capable in their dripping rain slickers and boots. "Is something wrong?"
"A great deal wrong," Sister Hyacinthe told them eagerly.
"Was wrong," corrected Sister John. "You have flashlights-could we all take a look around before going inside?"
They tramped through the wet grass to the rear where they discovered that the electric wires had been severed at the point where they entered the house. Someone had even taken the time to wrap up the slack and coil it neatly over a wisteria vine. "An orderly mind," pointed out Sister John. They also found that a truck had recently been parked at the service driveway down near Fallen Stump Road, for the mud still bore the imprint of wide-track double tires. Several footprints led into the tall grass before they disappeared.
"Okay, what happened?" asked Brill, turning to Sister John.
In a matter-of-fact voice she told him, and Alfie shock
ed Sister Hyacinthe by remarking with admiration that it was a damned clever trick and he would like to meet whoever thought of it. She did not, however, abandon her illusions of the supernatural until Naomi spotted the tiny electronic device on the tree by the diningroom window. It was attached to the trunk by means of a suction cup, and when she pulled it away it wheezed and gasped out one last feeble bar of harp music.
"They forgot to take this one away," said Sister John grimly. "Transistorized, too, no doubt?"
"Obviously they didn't know what they were up against," Naomi told her in an awed voice. "They thought you'd run screaming from the house, and then they'd go inside and look for Sister Ursula."
"Sister Ursula! Oh dear, we've forgotten all about him," exclaimed Sister John, startled. "We tucked him into the secret passage more than an hour ago."
They hurried inside and up the stairs to Sister Ursula's room, where Sister Hyacinthe fumbled for the hidden lever and slid back the wall of the closet. "Sister Ursula?" she called.
Alfie shone his flashlight on an empty landing, and spoke the obvious. "He's gone."
Sister Hyacinthe and Sister John exchanged horrified glances. "Down the stairs?"
"To the basement?" gasped Sister Hyacinthe.
Flashlights were focused, and in single file they descended the narrow secret staircase but there was no sign of Sister Ursula, either on the steps or collapsed in a heap at the bottom. Sister John pressed against the preserve closet wall and passed through it first, which gave her a moment to check the money. She found it still intact under the dustcloths. By the time the others joined her, however, there was no doubt but that Sister Ursula was somewhere in the basement, for they could all hear the sounds of joyous singing from another room.
They found him in the wine cellar, seated on the floor with his coif in his lap and his long veil tucked rakishly over one ear. Four empty bottles stood in a circle around ham; he clutched a fifth to his bosom and with eyes closed and mouth open lustily sang, "There was a young virgin named Cherry . . . with whom we made very very merry . . . "
Sister John sighed and shook her head. "How tedious this is going to be," she said. "Tomorrow we'll not only have to call the electric company and the police, but before we do anything else we'll have to do some serious work on strengthening Sister Ursula's character."
Alfie grinned. "It certainly gives you a busy day."
"I told you," Sheriff McGee said the next morning, standing in the rear garden and staring resentfully at the house. He chewed irritably on the stub of his Sani-Smoke cigar, which muffled his voice but not his indignation.
"Told us what?" asked Sister John.
"Three of you here alone is asking for trouble. I warned you."
"No, I don't think you did," said Sister John, considering his statement judiciously.
His glance was cold. "I've been making inquiries and there's no doubt about it, your house has a very bad reputation in the neighborhood. A real ghosthouse, people call it. Strange lights now and then. Noises. Am I right, Al?"
Al Carson from the power and light company glanced down from the porch roof and shrugged. "All I know is, no ghost put these wires out of order. A knife did it, and I never heard of a ghost carrying a knife."
The sheriff didn't appear to appreciate this. "I'll take a look inside the house."
"But the ghost didn't go inside," pointed out Sister John.
"Mercifully," added Sister Hyacinthe.
"Just the same I'll have a look around."
"Not," said Sister John firmly, "until Sister Ursula has been told that a man is coming into the house. She was about to have a bath, wasn't she, Sister Hyacinthe?"
"I hadn't planned on going into the bathroom," said the sheriff.
"Nevertheless please wait until Sister Hyacinthe has alerted Sister Ursula. She's easily upset."
"You don't seem to be," the sheriff said suspiciously, as Sister Hyacinthe hurried toward the house.
"Sister Ursula is nearly eighty," she told him shamelessly, "and although fortunately she was, er, dead to the world during the events of last evening, nevertheless the sudden appearance of a man would definitely frighten her. She's lived in cloister for years."
"Why doesn't it scare you too?" asked the sheriff, chewing on this subject like a cud.
Sister John's glance was impatient. "I don't see why that fact interests you. I'd always assumed that a policeman's job is to prevent women from being frightened, not to analyze why they're not."
With this remark the battle was joined, the sheriff staring hard at Sister John and she returning his glance calmly, thereby earning another black mark against herself by refusing to be outstared. His glance fell first and a dark flush stole over his neck; he turned on his heel and stalked toward the house, dropping his dead cigar in the grass.
Sister John picked up the cigar stub and was about to follow him when she saw Al Carson shaking his head at her. "Shouldn't have talked back to him," he said sorrowfully.
"I didn't really. What's the matter with him, anyway, is he bilious?" asked Sister John. "When we first met he threatened us with handcuffs and jail."
Al Carson nodded. "You're probably too Catholic for him . . . I know I'm too black for him. If someone's too poor he gets mean and if they're too rich he gets nasty. He also likes men to have short hair and women to stay in their place. And he hates change."
"He must be a very lonely man."
Al snorted. "The hell he is. Not even the smoke from those fancy Sani-Smoke cigars of his keep his cronies away."
"How do you happen to know so much about him?"
He winked. "We blacks know all the things you've always wanted to know about white people but were afraid to ask."
Sister John shook her head incredulously, picked up her skirts and hurried into the house where she found the sheriff standing unsupervised at the door to the pantry. "Where's Sister Hyacinthe?" she asked, taken aback at finding him alone.
He said in a kindly voice, "I really don't know, ma'am." The change in his manner was startling; he looked almost serene, as if a religious experience had happened to him between the garden and the house. "I think I'll be moving along now, Sister, there's a good bit of work waiting downtown but I'll see to it that a police car patrols Fallen Stump Road at least once during the night. That way if there's any more hanky-panky-Probably teen-agers," he added, moving toward the door.
"Teen-agers?"
"Yeah, teen-agers. Halloween stuff."
"But this is July," pointed out Sister John.
"Maybe so," he said, standing outside and studying the back of the house, "but kids these days are pretty advanced. Who boarded up the pantry window there?"
"Alfie."
The sheriff shook his head. "Troublemakers, those kids. Outsiders. Wouldn't be at all surprised if they aren't behind the whole thing." With this announcement he strolled toward his patrol car, climbed inside and drove away.
Al Carson had gone, too, but the refrigerator was humming again as she returned to the kitchen. She continued upstairs in search of Sister Hyacinthe and found her in Sister Ursula's room. Sister Ursula was also there, lying in bed with towels covering his head.
"I couldn't persuade him to hide," explained Sister Hyacinthe. "He says he died sometime during the night. He says he can't move and his head is bursting."
"It's a hang-over," Sister John said sternly, "and just what he deserves."
The towels trembled and a jaundiced eye appeared among the folds. "That's a very un-Christian remark, I think you're monsters of piety, both of you. Here I am, at least ten martinis behind since getting shot, and you begrudge me a little wine. Damn good wine, too."
"Yes, 1912 and expensive," said Sister John. "We had a sheriff downstairs a moment ago, and you were supposed to be in the bathroom. If he'd come up to look around-" She walked to the door and stopped to look back at him, saying indignantly, "I don't think I've met anyone with such a low frustration tolerance. Or," she added, "such a dim talent f
or survival."
She left, and Sister Ursula said reflectively, "I think she's angry."
"Basically, yes," agreed Sister Hyacinthe.
Sister John found Brill waiting downstairs for her. It was his day off from bean picking, he said, and he had come to ask if they had any chores or errands that needed doing. Sister John thanked him with feeling and sent him off with a shovel to reinstate the mailbox on Fallen Stump Road. He not only succeeded in making it vertical but presently returned to ask what name to paint on it.
"Sisters of St. Tabitha," she said.
"Then here's a letter for you," he said, producing an envelope. "The postman happened to drive past while I was working."
Sister John glanced at the address on it and excitedly lifted her voice. "A letter, Sister Hyacinthe," she called. "It's postmarked the day we left the abbey."
Sister Hyacinthe hurried down and seated herself on the bottom stair; only then did Sister John open it, reading it aloud to Brill as well as Sister Hyacinthe.
"'I know you will be pleased to hear," wrote the abbess, "that this morning's mail-which arrived shortly after your departure-brought a letter to us from our motherhouse in Switzerland. Dear Mother Therese, from whom we have had so many inspiring and helpful letters, has replied at last about Mr. Moretti's legacy. She writes that, knowing the difficulties that have beset us here, she wishes us to have all the benefits of the legacy since their vineyards have been blessed with three fine years. They will not hear of our sharing any proceeds from the gift with them . . .
"And so, dear Sister John," continued the abbess, "you see how important your mission is, and how we rely on you. I have sent you out into the world with Sister Hyacinthe, not only to learn about the world, but also to learn what contribution we can best make to it for the glory of God. I place the decision entirely in your hands."
Sister John put down the letter. "In my hands," she whispered. "Oh, how wonderful, perhaps we can even do something for the migrant workers."
Gilman, Dorothy - A Nun in the Closet Page 10