Ghost Stories
Page 29
After him came two children, hand-in-hand; and these, Anna knew at once, were Mary’s two. She would have known even without the long trembling sigh that breathed past her ear. The little girl looked so like Mary! She was about six, Anna judged, and her hair was twisted in a little knob on top of her head for coolness’ sake—a fashion of hair-dressing for very little girls which, more than another, perhaps, brings a lump into the throat. Is it because of its sweet caricature of maturity, as though both the promise and the menace of the years were revealed in those lines? Or is it that the curve of the back of the neck shown in this way is so lovely that it has a spiritual significance, like the odor of the first grass in spring or the color of evening sky through trees?
She walked with a rather conceited air, her gait indicating a lofty scorn of the Double Mastoid’s claim to be a pioneer, She made it very evident that she could come up one foot after another, just like all other grown-ups, and she did it with a swagger, to render as obvious as possible her superiority in age, strength, and wisdom over the little boy at her side, who could do no better than one step at a time, and even so had to touch his hand to the tread now and then.
They were thin children, but thin like elves—not with the sadness and languor of sickness. And their faces in the twilight had a lambent quality, their eyes a liquid brightness. One felt that if the whim took them they might easily thrust forth gauzy wings and suddenly sail away with other night creatures.
In their conversation there was a pleasing breadth of impossibility that showed them to be as yet little acquainted with the restrictions of mortal life; “I’m going to be an engineer when I grow up,” stated the boy, “but I’m not going to be a man. I’m going to be a mother. My name isn’t Benny.”
“What is your name?” the girl asked, without surprise,
“I’m Nelly.”
“Well, then, I won’t be Martha, I’ll be Rosie, and you’re my little sister.” She was in a kindly mood, which might not last. Only so long as the current of her dream flowed smoothly would Martha be good. The interruption came quickly.
“No, I’m your big sister. I’m not little at all. Auntie Van Duyne says I’m getting bigger every day.”
“All right, then; I sha’n’t play with you,” quoth Martha, crisply, and stalked ahead; as naughty as her mother had described. And then Anna saw Mary, who had silently left her side, stoop over and apparently whisper softly to the cross little face surmounted by its wisp of topknot. Martha stopped, finger in mouth, to kick the sand with her toe and look with sidelong friendliness at Benny as he arrived, panting. Then they went on, once more in amity, their short arms stretched about each other’s waists. And the mother kept beside them, still whispering in their ears and kissing them. Yet—they did not turn to her or answer.
“I hope mother’ll bring us some paints,” Martha was saying as they passed beyond hearing.
“If she does, I’ll make her a picture of an engine,” Benny joyfully planned.
“Mary!” called Anna. She was surprised to feel that she was trembling, not that she was in any way afraid. She could not have said what had so shaken her. No longer seeing her friend, she laughed and said aloud, “Oh, she must have gone into the house ahead of them.”
A slower step was now coming up the bluff stairs, and there appeared a figure in professional white, strong and purposeful, but for the moment rather weary and thoughtful.
Miss Marston stepped forward.
“Good evening, Mrs. Van Duyne. I was coming over to see the Barclay children.”
The troubled face was crossed by a flash of joyful surprise and relief.
“Oh, do you know them? I’m so thankful. I wish I’d known before. I’ve been nearly frantic. Of course, then, you know—”
She took a twist of yellow paper from her belt and handed it to Anna Marston, who did not open it, but trembled very much as she looked at Mrs. Van Duyne, in whose fine, wise eyes the tears glittered and brimmed over, unheeded.
Tears were something which in Mrs. Van Duyne’s code were a matter to be disregarded, like any other physical weakness in a person who never allowed herself to be sick,
“I haven’t told them, of course. I shall put it off—as long as I possibly can. She worked herself to death—” She broke off with a burst of that kindly anger to which the very good and just are so easily stirred. “Her heart wasn’t strong, and the heat finished her. The telegram came this afternoon. I can’t tell you how glad I am to find out you are her friend. So far as I can make out she had no relatives. I”—she spread out her hands with a sort of desperation—“I do what I can.”
Anna had heard tales enough to know that “what I can” meant an amazing amount of work without return in money, that it meant great kindliness, of which advantage was often taken by weak and selfish people. Not that Mrs. Van Duyne ever told. Nevertheless, it had got about that one of the babies had never paid its board since it was a month old, yet you could not have guessed which was the delinquent by any difference between its care and that of “Old Top” or little Marasmus, for example, whose parents came and went in limousines loaded down with all sorts of expensive, foolish toys, whose wardrobes were all silken-fine, and who, when they grew up, would be very high and mighty folk indeed. Old Top, certainly; Marasmus, in all probability—though that was going to be pretty brisk and delicate work for a while.
“Since you are a friend,” went on Mrs. Van Duyne, “perhaps you can tell me what to do. I’m not talking about the immediate present. They—well, they are here, and they are dear children, though that little Martha is certainly a handful.” She half laughed through her tears. “But there is so much future.… What about the years and years?”
Anna Marston was still shaking as though through the heat an icy wind had blown upon her. Once more she was aware of Mary Barclay—vividly aware—but this time it was not with her physical eyes that she seemed to see her. There was no further illusion—if it had been illusion—of that indistinct figure bending above those little, unconscious heads, touching them, kissing them, enveloping them, like a bird hovering over its nest.
Instead there was, as it were, an inward vision. She and Mary Barclay were again face to face, but it was not in any way a pitiful entreaty for charity which she read in her friend’s eyes. Rather it was a command.
“Dear Mrs. Van Duyne,” said Anna, trying to bring her voice under control, “Mary Barclay knows that I am ready to take her place. She knows I—I want them—both of them—more than anything else in the world.”
The first sigh of the coming coolness breathed past them from the sea. It was like the long breath of one who, after great restlessness, turns at last to sleep.
1 “Marasmus” is severe malnutrition caused by a protein deficiency and is usually the result of severe poverty or climatic conditions resulting in a lack of food. With “very rich parents,” the child was either abused or suffered from viral, bacterial, or parasitic infection.
2 Mastoiditis is the result of an uncontrolled middle-ear infection, often resulting in air pockets inside the skull.
Acknowledgments
From Les: What a joy to rediscover the chills of ghost stories! As usual, this book is the product of many hands. First and foremost, it is a thrill to co-edit a book with my longtime pal Lisa Morton, whose work I have long admired. I hope that this will be but the first of many collaborations! Many thanks to my agent Don Maass, who is always supportive of even my wildest ideas. Claiborne Hancock and the rest of the Pegasus team—Maria Fernandez and Sabrina Plomitallo-González in particular—lavished it with care and attention. I’m always grateful to my writer-friends, Laurie R. King, Neil Gaiman, Nicholas Meyer, Cornelia Funke, and especially Peter Straub, from whom we shamelessly stole the title. Sherlockian pals Mike Whelan, Steve Rothman, Andy Peck, and Jerry Margolin are constant cheerleaders. My family is always understanding of my disappearances as I indulge in research and writing. Finally, without my wife Sharon, none of my writing would ever see the ligh
t. She has always been, and remains, “the woman.”
From Lisa: It was a long-held dream to work with my friend Les, and I couldn’t be happier with or more grateful for the experience. Among those who helped make it possible: Donald Maass; Claiborne Hancock, Maria Fernandez, Sabrina Plomitallo-González and the rest of the wonderful Pegasus crew; the Iliad Bookshop in North Hollywood, CA; and my ever-tolerant and supportive s.o. Ricky Grove. But I must save my ultimate thanks for the authors, all ghosts themselves now, who created the beautiful and chilling work we used for this book.
GHOST STORIES
Pegasus Books Ltd.
148 W 37th Street, 13th Floor
New York, NY 10018
Compilation and Introduction copyright © 2019 by Lisa Morton and Leslie S. Klinger
First Pegasus Books cloth edition April 2019
Interior design by Maria Fernandez
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
ISBN: 978-1-64313-020-0
ISBN: 978-1-64313-119-1 (ebk.)
Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company
www.pegasusbooks.us