“I am very serious,” Yuri said.
She realized that she had hurt his feelings, and she said, “And after the devil has danced with the new cultist?”
“He punctures the throat of the newcomer with his fangs and drinks the blood — simultaneously spitting his own hideous plasma back into the tainted body.”
“That's positively grotesque!” Katherine said, turning quickly away from the window and the forest beyond. “You Romanians have a morbid imagination, don't you?”
“Perhaps it is not imagination at all,” he said, wiping at his face again, as if brushing off a cobweb that he had walked into. “Perhaps it is only observation”
“I'm sorry, Yuri, but I think that sounds silly; I can't accept it. Understand that I wasn't born and raised in Europe, but here in the United States. We teach our children that the devil is little to be feared and that all those other things — werewolves and vampires and so forth — are only real in the movies.”
He had crossed the room as she spoke and stood by the carved door. “I understand,” he said. “And please try to understand me, too. I was not attempting to frighten you, but was merely presenting what seemed to be good advice. Will you lock your door when you retire?”
Reluctantly, she said, “Yes.”
He smiled, pleased with even this small concession, and said, “Excellent! Goodnight, Miss Sellers.”
He was gone in a moment, closing the heavy door behind him, leaving her alone for the first time since she had entered Owlsden.
Katherine sat on the edge of her bed and looking into the full-length mirror that rested on its stand only half a dozen feet away, surveyed her appearance. She realized that her expression was drawn and haggard, the corners of her mouth turned down and touched with doubt. She looked as if she had actually been terrified by Yuri's nonsense and would spend every night in Owlsden shivering in expectation of a vampire fluttering close by her window. She suddenly laughed; the figure in the mirror laughed too. Seeing her smile reflected, she felt a great deal better.
As she prepared for bed, she had time to consider the little scene that had so recently been played out before the window in this room, and she began to wonder if Yuri had motives beyond those that he claimed. He was obviously well educated and it was exceedingly difficult to believe that he was as superstitious a man as he pretended to be.
But what other motivation could he have? Did he mean to frighten her? If so, why?
When she was ready for bed, she found that her ruminations had driven away all desire for sleep. Her eyes felt as if they were pinned open and lacquered in position.
She opened her suitcases and unpacked them, hung her clothes in the two large closets and folded others away in the drawers of the hutch and the triple chest.
When she finished unpacking, she went to the window and stared out at the snow and the distant woods where, Yuri insisted, the devil's dance had taken place. It all seemed unreal.
She went to bed, slid beneath the covers, and reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. Darkness flooded into the room, deep and complete at first, then slowly lightening as the less-dark night sent pale, questing fingers of light through the uncurtained windows.
Everything was going to be fine, she decided. The job was perfect. She liked both Lydia and Alex Boland and as a change from the things she had known previously, she liked the almost embarrassing luxury of Owlsden. The future could not be brighter. Except… except, what had Yuri been trying to tell her, and why had he really felt it necessary that she keep her door locked at night…?
CHAPTER 4
She sat straight up in bed, her heart thumping in her chest like a quickly-beating drum. She blinked her eyes at the intense darkness until she remembered where she was. The bedside clock, in glowing numerals, read 2:10. She did not know what had awakened her, but she knew it must have been a loud noise to have cut through the deep and peaceful sleep she had been enjoying.
Pushing the covers away, she got out of bed, stepped into her slippers and went to the window.
The snow was falling as hard as before and had covered everything in a soft, woolly blanket. Here and there, the wind had drifted the snow forming curiously lovely curves and sweeps of whiteness.
The night, but for the relentless wind and the hiss of snow on the windows, seemed as still as a graveyard. Certainly, there were no prancing cultists around a bonfire…
Suddenly she heard something: like a man groaning… just beyond her shoulder, groaning in pain.
She recognized now the sound that had awakened her. It was hollow, bled by the susurration of the wind against the house, but still chillingly threatening.
Turning away from the window, she tried to place it, decided that it was coming from the corridor rather than the night beyond the glass.
As she walked toward the door, she recalled Yuri's concerned admonition to keep her door locked and to avoid going out of her room during the night hours, and she wondered, only briefly, if this strange moaning sound was one of the things that he had been trying to warn her about. Then she sighed in disgust at her even momentary consideration of the Romanian's superstitions, ashamed that she had let the gloomy, sullen mood of the chill night get to her so badly.
The moan came again. It was definitely in the main corridor and not too very far away from her door.
The sound was odd indeed, but within the realm of sensible explanation, she felt sure — not a vampire or a werewolf, not a banshee, not the beseeching call of a devil seeking souls — something altogether common and unharmful.
She opened her door and listened until the sound came again, like the soft cry of someone in pain. She placed it very near at hand, though she could see nothing close by.
Stepping into the hall, she silently closed the door. She let her eyes adjust to the deep darkness which was relieved only minimally by the very weak light that passed through the tiny casement window at the end of the hall on her right. In a few minutes, when she could see fairly well, it became obvious that no one else inhabited this half of the main corridor. The half of the hall beyond the stairwell was too far away and too dark for her to see clearly. But that didn't matter, for the noise was nearer at hand.
The cry came again, much longer this time but still tantalizingly indefinable. It might be someone in pain — or it might be nothing more than the wind blowing through a nook in the roofing.
Curiously, it sounded as if it were generated directly overhead, not more than a few feet away.
She looked up.
Nothing…
There was a door across the corridor, and it seemed the best place to look first. She knew, from Yuri's comments as he had lead her to her room earlier in the evening, that no one slept in that room — at least, he had not mentioned it to her while pointing out the bedchambers of other members of the household. She crossed to the door, pulled it open and found a set of dusty stairs leading upwards into a Stygian pool of darkness.
She had brought a flashlight with her, and now she was glad that she always thought of the little things when she packed. Returning to her room, moving silently so as not to wake anyone in the house if the strange noise had not already stirred them, she found the light and brought it back to the stairwell. She flicked it on, shone it on the worn, wooden risers which, judging from the patina of dust, had not been trod in several years.
The cry sounded again.
Standing in the open doorway, she could hear it far more clearly than ever, drifting down the steps from the unused third level.
It occurred to Katherine as she stood there at the bottom of the stairs that this was none of her business, this odd cry, and that she would be far better off if she turned right around, went back to her warm bed and tried to get some sleep. That would, however, be something of a concession to the doubts which Yuri had placed in her mind, a concession she was loathe to make. Superstitions. No one in Owlsden had any reason to hurt her. On the contrary, they had every reason to treat her well. Bes
ides, her curiosity had been so strongly aroused that she could not deny it and then hope to find any sleep.
She started up the stairs.
They were so well-made that none of them squeaked under her.
At the top, she had still not encountered anyone or anything that could have been making the odd noise. She shone the flashlight behind her and looked at the scuff marks that her slippers had made in the virgin blanket of dust, then faced front again and examined the corridor in which she found herself. This one was much like the first and second floor halls, just as richly appointed, as high-ceilinged and as eccentrically inlaid with exotic woods. The carpet had been rolled up long ago and replaced by a carpet of brown dust. The furniture had been removed, she had the feeling that the rooms off the hall would be equally barren.
The air was colder up here than in the lower regions of the great house. When she touched the radiator that walled the entire end of the corridor to waist height, she found that it had been turned off and was icy.
The cry came again, directly ahead of her, across the hall. She went there, the light ahead of her like a sword, and opened the door of the room that lay directly over her own.
The sound rolled over Katherine as she pushed open the heavy door, so near that she jumped involuntarily, as if the sound had possessed a sharp physical impact.
“Who is it?” she asked.
She was answered only by silence.
She took a step forward.
“Is anyone here?”
She waited, took another step.
“Are you hurt?”
The cry came again.
She directed the flashlight beam to the left, passed it along the empty floorboards and undecorated walls where the antique, flowered wallpaper was peeling away in long, yellow-brown, snaky strips.
This time, when the noise came, she realized that it was more to her right, and she began to turn that way when she saw the yellow eyes watching her with cold, evident malevolence, each eye as large as a quarter and as fixed on her as if they were painted.
She almost screamed, but found that her throat constricted so tightly that she could do nothing more than emit a weak, hissing sound that would attract no one to her aid.
The creature moaned again.
Its cry suddenly sounded naggingly familiar, although she could not place it.
The eyes blinked, opened on her again, watching.
Back-stepping toward the door, she finally managed to put the light on the thing and, as she did so, to overcome the unreasonable, clutching fear that had so swiftly taken control of her. She was glad that she had not been able to scream, for she would only have made a fool of herself. All that she faced was a small, brown owl that sat on the bare floor with its wings hunched and its beak open, working out that soft, ululating whoing noise.
“Owlsden,” Katherine said to the owl.
It blinked.
She laughed just a trifle nervously, then shone the beam of the light around the room again. The ceiling here was open-beamed, taking advantage of the magnificent, polished oak rafters. Two places in those rafters, owls sat looking down at her, chinless as their white chests puffed up over the straight columns of their necks.
They cried out in unison, the great, empty room giving their voices an echo-chamber effect that explained how they had carried to her so well and had pulled her out of sleep.
One of the things she had meant to ask Lydia, but had forgotten, was why the house was so curiously named. Now she would not have to ask. It was a haven for owls, providing in its abandoned third floor a place of refuge from foul weather.
She left the room, closed the door behind her, went to the stairs and descended to the second floor. In a few moments, she was in her room again, tucked beneath the covers.
The owls hooted, as if sending her a special message of their friendship.
As sleep crept up on Katherine once more, she speculated that this small event was representative of the larger conflict of two main approaches to life — her optimism for which she had now and then been chided by other students in college, and Yuri's pessimism which easily made possible the silly superstitions he said he believed. There was nothing in Owlsden to harm anyone. Yes, there were Satanists in Roxburgh or somewhere in the outlying districts, holding their rituals of blood and hate, but one only had to think of them and deal with them as one would with spoiled, nasty children, and there would be nothing whatsoever to worry about.
She was not going to worry about demons, devils, and ceremonial dances of evil.
The owls hooted.
She realized, as she drifted into sleep, that she had already become accustomed to them and that she found the sound of their nocturnal cries somewhat comforting…
CHAPTER 5
In the morning, the storm was gone, leaving more than twenty inches of fresh, blindingly white snow dumped on Roxburgh and the surrounding countryside. The trees were hung with it, the pines bent under their hoary load, a few of the birches even snapped in two under the tremendous weight. The drifts on the west side of the house were swept up over most of the first floor windows, while the lawn behind was nearly scraped barren of its share of whiteness. The sky was bright and blue, cut through here and there by gray remnants of the storm, or by cloudy premonitions of another snow.
Katherine took breakfast in her own room, some fruit juice and a sweet roll. She had never been one for eating heavily in the morning, preferring to skimp even through lunch so that, at dinner, she could indulge herself and still not overeat. Though slim, she knew she had a tendancy to add weight quickly if she didn't watch herself.
When she got downstairs, she found Lydia Boland in the library which also served as her “office.” The room was lined with bookshelves that ran clear to the ceiling, all packed tightly with an unbelievable number of paperback and hardbound volumes. There was even a stool for reaching the titles on the middle shelf and a rolling ladder whose wheels fit into a tiny track in the ceiling, making it possible to move the ladder wherever one wanted it and then to climb up and easily obtain any volume in the room.
“Good morning!” Lydia said.
She was sitting at a large, pine desk with a massive slab top at least three inches thick, with legs as sturdy as bedposts. It was so huge and masculine that it dwarfed her and made her seem much smaller than she was, smaller than Katherine. This did not, however, make her look more aged, but rather younger, almost like a little girl in her bright yellow dress.
“Good morning,” Katherine said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Fine, thank you. And how was your first night in Owlsden?”
“I found out how it got it's name,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yes.” She told Lydia about her middle-of-the-night adventure.
“How wonderful!” Lydia said. “I forgot to mention them to you. Most girls would have locked their door and pulled up the sheets and forgotten about the noise.”
“Maybe my curiosity will kill me some day,” Katherine said.
“Don't believe it. Only those people with curiosity ever amount to anything in this life.”
There was more pleasant conversation, and then the dictation of a few letters which Katherine took in shorthand and typed on rich, embossed vellum stationery, using the IBM electric that was the only modern thing in the library.
As she was finishing the last letter — Lydia was looking over something in a book she had taken from the shelves — Alex Boland poked his head in the door. “I think I'll be going into town, Mother. Still want Katherine to go with me?”
“Yes,” Lydia said. She put her book down and turned to Katherine. “I believe your records say you ski.”
“There's a run into town?” Katherine asked.
“An excellent one,” Alex said. “About a two mile winding slope that leads gently through the pines and feeds almost directly into Costerfeld Avenue.”
“I'd like you to accompany Alex,” Lydia said. “Let him show you the
town. Roxburgh has been my life, or most of it, and I want you to become thoroughly familiar with it.”
“I'll have to change,” Katherine said. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Right,” Alex said. “I'll meet you outside the kitchen door.”
The day was cold but, without the wind, she found it far more endurable than the day before. She was dressed in blue insulated ski slacks, black sweater, thermal jacket, sturdy boots and toboggan hat. When she came out the kitchen door, she saw Alex standing far off to the south, at the edge of the mountain slope where the first downward angling of the land began. She went to him, kicking at the snow as she did.
He said, “How much have you skied before?”
“Quite a bit,” she said. “The orphanage where I grew up was near a resort that used to let us kids in free if we were interested. I was one of the few who were interested, and I spent a lot of my free time there.”
He nodded. “This shouldn't be any trouble. Look.”
A wide swath of clean snow, guarded by towering pines, lead down the mountainside, cut at one edge by what appeared to be power pylons carrying two thick cables.
“It looks easy enough,” she said.
They put on their skis, and Alex went over the edge first, swishing through the clean snow, cutting two shallow runners as he went. She followed close behind, watching him, letting his movements dictate hers as they swept down the snaking trail.
The wind bit at her, whined off her vinyl slacks and jacket, snapped her yellow hair out behind her and tried to tug away the toboggan cap which was strapped beneath her chin.
Snow thrown up behind Alex spattered her goggles. She wiped them off and dropped back fifty feet until she was not bothered by his wake.
The trees flashed by so fast that, if she looked to either side, they almost seemed like a continuous rail fence of gargantuan proportions.
She felt gloriously free and renewed. One day on the job, and already she knew that she would be happy to be Lydia Boland's secretary and companion for the next fifty years if Lydia happened to live to be over a hundred.
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