Late at Night

by William Schoell

  “I’m only ask—”

  “You’re grilling him, and it isn’t necessary.” She smashed the stub of her cigarette angrily into the nearest ashtray and turned her back on the lawyer. There seemed to be a fragile thread holding their relationship together, and the least little snap would tear the thread in two.

  Everson turned to his employee. “Hans. I’m sorry. I’m so overwrought, worried about those girls. This is so unlike them. Eric, yes. He is irresponsible and I’ve accepted it long ago. But Emily. Joanne. What could they be up to?”

  Hans only shook his head. “I’ll keep searching all night if I have to.”

  “This whole thing is becoming a little alarming,” Anton said. He was perched on the settee, his smirk in place, holding his chest and head up in a manner that made him seem bird-like. “It’s getting quite dark out, in case anyone hasn’t noticed, and there are several people out there, some of whom might well be injured or incapacitated.”

  Anton’s manner irritated Ernie no end. “Will you help us go out and look for them?”

  Anton remained unruffled. “I have nothing else to do, dear fellow.” He bowed from the waist with it .sweeping gesture. “Lead on.”

  Ernie realized that he had put himself in a spot. There was something else he wanted to search for before he went looking for the missing staff and guests. He looked over in Andrea’s direction, but she was gone. Good girl, he thought, she was going to look in the servants’ quarters while Hans and the others were milling about out here. Then he could hear her voice coming from the kitchen. She must have stopped to chat with Betty, who was still in there doing the dishes.

  “All right,” Ernie said. “Should we go in teams as before? Or should we separate?”

  Everson waved his arm limply as if to discount both suggestions. “Ernie, no. You people are our guests. Hans and I will do the searching. We’ll go where the girls were seen last. The house. They probably wandered around and lost track of the time.” He looked at the swede. “Hans, half of the flashlights we have aren’t working. Go out in the shed and see if you can find some more batteries.”

  “All right, sir. But I must tell you that the area near the mansion has already been searched.”

  “But no one went back inside the house. That’s what I intend to do.” He addressed the other two men in the room. “You fellows can stay here until we get back. If we think we need you, we’ll let you know.”

  Ernie stepped forward. “John, it will be a lot easier if we go with you. That house is big, remember? At least let Anton and me look elsewhere on the island.”

  Anton grunted. “We’ll probably bump smack into those star-crossed lovers, Glo and Jerry.”

  Everson groaned. “Darn. I forgot about them.”

  “Relax,” Anton continued. “They’re undoubtedly having a nice, long chat, reassessing their relationship and all that. They’ll come back when they’re good and ready. I wouldn’t worry about them. Those May-December romances, you know.”

  If Everson had heard the last remark, or if Anton was embarrassed that he had made it, neither made it evident. Lynn, however, smoking a freshly lit cigarette over in the corner, gave the pianist a glowering stare.

  “Hans, look for the batteries.” The Swede nodded to his employer and headed out to the storage shed.

  Lynn puffed furiously on her cigarette as if fortifying herself, then made her way over to Anton’s side. “Of course, you conveniently forgot to mention that Glo and Jerry wouldn’t have run off at all if you had learned to mind your business.” It was clear that there were a lot of hurts between the two, a lot of sensitive areas and sore spots left over from their old relationship. “But no, you have to run and tell Gloria the bad news the first chance you get.”

  Everson saw a scene arising, and tried to head it off, the diplomat in him surfacing. “Lynn. Not now. Let’s not get into—”

  “She’s my aunt!” she screamed. “And I love her. And I won’t have her hurt by this slimy, two-bit”—she held her hands out, searching for the right word—“asshole who loves to play with people’s feelings as if they were—as if they were dirt.”

  Anton’s face wore a scornful look, but on the outside he was calm. “You’re overreacting,” he said. “Shamelessly. Your aunt can take care of herself, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’ve been friends with Glo for years, remember? She introduced you to me. I thought she should know how ‘faithful’ her boring little playmate really is. You’ve been acting strange ever since we landed on the island, Lynn, and whatever’s bothering you has affected your judgment.”

  “Ooooohhhh,” Lynn made her hands into fists and squealed out her anger. “I could just—”

  The kitchen door swung open and Betty was there, wiping her hands on an apron tied around her waist. She looked so worried, so distraught, that for a moment Ernie thought she had rushed out in Anton’s defense. Anton looked towards her with a smile on his face, all beneficence, all charm, like a praying mantis catching sight of a tidbit. ”Betty.”

  She continued wiping her hands and looked at the others in turn. “Mrs. Plushing,” she said. “I—I’m terribly worried about her.” Immediately she had Everson’s and Lynn’s undivided attention. “Her fever is getting higher. She’s burning up.”

  “My God.” Lynn stubbed out another cigarette, put her hand over her mouth.

  “We brought medicine, extra blankets,” Everson said. “In case of an emergency. Hans will show you where they are.” As if on cue the Swede walked in carrying a pair of flashlights. “We remembered everything but batteries,” the handyman explained. “But I found these and they seem to be working.”

  “Never mind that now,” Everson said. “Take Betty out and show her where the thermometer and medicines we brought along are stored. In the small black case, I believe. Do you mind nursing Mrs. Plushing for a while?” he asked Betty. She was still wiping her hands, which by now were as dry as the Sahara. “Just until I return?”

  “I can do it,” Lynn said. “Betty’s ‘a guest.’ ”

  Betty was quick to contradict her. “I don’t mind. Really I don’t.”

  Lynn was in no mood to argue. “Suit yourself.”

  Everson took the two flashlights. The Swede went by himself to get the medical supplies, instructing Betty to wait until he returned.

  “Some trip this is turning out to be,” Everson muttered.

  Lynn swiveled, faced him. “What did you say?”

  Everson paused, then lost all decorum. “You heard me.” His tone was hostile.

  Lynn addressed no one in particular. “Next he’ll be blaming me. You wait. He’ll say this trip was my idea and all my ideas are stupid.”

  “Lynn, for heaven’s sake.” Everson was switching the flashlights off and on, checking to see if they’d stay lit for a reasonable period.

  She pressed on. “You were the one who suggested this trip. I’ve always hated this island and that awful old woman who lived here. She spent her money on obscure, ridiculous institutions all her life, and what was left was eaten up by that private nurse of hers. And what does she leave me, this godforsaken—”

  “I thought you were excited about owning this place, about having access to, what did you call It?”

  Lynn’s eyes flared as if Everson was about to enter forbidden territory, to say something she did not want the others to hear. “Never mind,” she shouted. Ernie sensed that she was showing the others a rare side of herself. All the tension— the missing housekeepers, Everson’s manner, and whatever strain there had been between the two of them before—was just too much for the woman. For just a second, she looked a little mad. “I wish we had never come here. It was a mistake.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that,” Everson growled. During all this Anton was looking on, his face amused, his eyes mildly contemptuous. Betty was still in the doorway, wringing her hands. She looked as if she was about to cry. The strain of it all was getting to her, too. Suddenly Ernie realized that Betty wa
s crying, that long wet streams of tears were running down over her chubby cheeks. She was clearly an extremely sensitive woman, a fragile chipmunk who overreacted to emotional situations.

  “Why, Betty, dear, what ever is the matter?” Anton purred, gliding over to where she stood and taking her hands in his own.

  “It’s nothing, Betty,” Lynn assured the woman. “John and I fight all the time. Everything will be all right.”

  Betty looked at them, her eyes and nose red, her flesh pale. “I—I’m so frightened,” she stuttered. “This island. The girls disappearing. Mrs. Plushing getting sick. And you and John fighting. It’s as if this island is making us all fall apart.”

  Anton chose that moment to shrug off the condescending, overly charming manner he had been using on the woman. “Oh, come now—that’s the stuff of moronic horror films. This island isn’t doing anything to us.” His sharp tone brought a fresh flood of silent tears. “Stop whimpering,” he ordered. Then, in a calmer, softer voice, the one he’d used before, he said, “Please, dear. You’ll only make matters worse. Everything is going to be all right. We’re all just a little overwrought.” Slowly, carefully, he soothed the little chipmunk back into his control, and even managed to get Betty to smile, a tentative one at first, then a big, toothy, infatuated grin. “I’ll—I’ll be all right,” she said.

  Lynn made a silent diagnosis. “I’ll go upstairs and get you a valium.”

  Ernie had been on the verge of sneaking into his room to check for the book, when Andrea came running into the lounge from the kitchen. “Mrs. Plushing is terribly ill. She keeps asking for Hans to come see her.” She and Ernie exchanged anxious glances.

  “Did someone mention me?” The Swede appeared behind Andrea, holding a black Boston bag. “I found the medical supplies, Mr. Everson.”

  Suddenly the air was full of a series of horrible screeches; high-pitched wails of agony and terror. Everyone knew where they were coming from. “My God!” Everson exclaimed. “What can be wrong with the woman!”

  The lawyer led Hans and Betty into Mrs. Plushing’s room. Anton went to fix himself a drink. Ernie was about to follow the others, when Andrea grabbed him and motioned him to follow her into his room. He closed the door to the makeshift bedroom and asked her what was up.

  “I was being melodramatic before; I’m not any longer. We are all in terrible danger.”

  “Did you look for the book?” he asked.

  She was visibly annoyed with the interruption, but answered. “Yes. I went through everything in Han’s and Eric’s room—and then snuck into the women’s quarters while Mrs. Plushing was sleeping. I had finished searching when Mrs. Plushing started murmuring in her sleep. She’s burning with fever, Ernie, and she kept asking to see Hans. Said she had something important to tell him.”

  “I don’t see how that means that we’re all in danger.”

  “It’s not that,” Andrea told him. “There’s a— a presence—on this island. A distinct, individual presence that’s evil and strong and getting stronger all the time.”

  Ernie tried to suppress his impatient sigh but it escaped before he could do so. Andrea gave him a livid glare, and started for the door. “Oh damn you! You’re all alike. You come to me with a ridiculous story about a precognitive book that anyone else would commit you for, and I bother to listen—and yes—to believe. But when I want to tell you what’s bothering me, you stand there sanctimoniously and have the gall to—”

  He grabbed her, thinking of the icy barrier he had witnessed between Lynn and his cousin, not wanting that same barrier to form between him and Andrea. He did the first thing that came to mind. No amount of apologizing or conversation might get to the woman the way she was feeling, but if he could shock her out of her indignation …

  And that was why he found himself crushing her in his arms, and pressing his lips down on top of hers. She struggled for a second, but only a second, and for a moment he was afraid he’d made a terrible mistake, that he’d come on like a macho peabrain reducing to a sex object a woman who was trying to be taken seriously by someone she’d befriended. He braced himself for the slaps, the accusations, the belittlement that was sure to follow.

  Instead, he felt Andrea giving in, then taking over, pulling him closer and pushing her tongue into his mouth. They couldn’t have held each other any tighter. He heard Andrea moaning, sighing. And then, when they seemed to be running out of air, and not before, he let her go and looked down to see her reaction firsthand.

  Andrea was smiling, out of breath. “If I’d known it was that easy to get you to kiss me I would have gotten angry a lot sooner.”

  The words rushed out of him. “Please. I didn’t do that to shut you up. It was my way of—of telling you that I care about you and your feelings and I feel like a shit because I did what I did back there. I should have listened to you. Please—I’m a reactionary, square, conventional shithead of a man who’s freaked out by all this supernatural stuff. And it will—it will take time. I want time, Andrea.”

  “I don’t care what your motives were,” she said. “I’m only glad you finally got around to doing it. The kiss, I mean. And as for the other, well—I know how hard it is for most people to understand.”

  “You were right, of course. I let you help me out, you listened to me and believed me, and,” he swung his foot out, kicking his suitcase, “look what I go and do.”

  “Forget it.” She sat down on the bed. “Will you listen to me now?”

  “Yes. Go ahead.” He sat down on the bed In side her, prepared to become engrossed in her every utterance.

  “Like I said earlier, there are bound to be many psychic currents, many—how can I phrase it?— auras on an island like this; on any space that’s been inhabited, and has had any kind of history, especially one as melodramatic as this. Violence, torment, anguish; these are strong emotions, emotions which, some people think, can live on longer than calmer, softer emotions.”

  “Hate is stronger than love. An old theme of horror stories.”

  She nodded. “Anyway, whether these currents are just electromagnetic energy from the brain, energy that never dies converted to psychic energy, or if there are actual souls or spirits floating around us—well, no one really knows. But in any case, I’ve felt these currents, spirits, energy sources, ever since I landed on the island. They’re concentrated here.”

  “Don’t you feel these currents all the time wherever you are?”

  “Yes, to some extent, although I’ve learned, while I’m wide awake at least, to tune them out. I have to, for my sanity’s sake. But in a town or city, just walking around, there are so many living people surrounding me, that their sheer vitality and consciousness just overwhelms any psychic energy that might be floating around. Here on the island it’s different. There are only a few of us, alive.

  “And, Ernie,” she said grimly, “we’re outnumbered.”

  Ernie leaned back on the bed and struggled to find the right words. “What do you mean? You think the spirits of the dead people here are out to harm those of us who are living?”

  She shook her head violently. “No. Not at all. It’s always been said ghosts don’t hurt people. Only the living can hurt people. And that’s what the problem is. I’ve sensed something troubling me ever since we landed, and I’ve finally realized what it is. Psychically, he or she was trying to hide from me, but I’ve broken through due to sheer persistence. There’s another psychic on the island, one potentially more powerful than I am. Someone who’s using the psychic currents on the island for his or her own devices. It’s either someone who was on the island all along, or someone who came to the island with us.”

  “You mean, one of us? Someone we know?”

  “Yes, probably. And I just don’t know who it could be. Lynn, Betty, Gloria, even Anton— though he’d be loath to admit it—they all share an interest in psychic phenomena and the supernatural. But if any of them have advanced beyond the curiosity stage, to become actual practitioners, they
kept it a secret from me.”

  “What about Everson? Jerry? One of the others.”

  “No. I don’t think so, but I just can’t be sure. Anyway, you’re in the clear. I would have sensed it about you a long time ago.”

  “That’s good, but you haven’t told me how this places us all in danger.”

  “Don’t you see? This person—whoever it is— is… I hesitate to say ‘evil,’ it’s so corny—but that’s what it comes down to. They’re playing with dangerous forces.”

  “It sounds like witchcraft, black magic.”

  “Some people might call it that, but to me it’s science. That’s why I’ve always been interested In the paranormal and the supernatural. One deals with the human mind, the other with ‘ghosts.’ But to my way of thinking, they’re two sides of the same coin, and can both be explained scientifically. I believe they’re aspects of a science so advanced it’s beyond the understanding of most of us, beyond even my understanding. A psychic person—what some would call a witch—is merely a person who can use the powers of his or her own brain more so than the rest of us can. Telekinesis, precognition—it’s all brain power; nothing spooky about it.”

  “What about foretelling the future? I’m sorry, but I can’t believe in fate.”

  Andrea spoke deliberately. “Some say that history repeats itself, that time is a circle, that we’ve all done this before and will do it again. Our lives are not so much preordained as lived over again.”

  “Depressing. You mean a child who dies at ten is doomed to keep dying at that age, never living out his lifespan. I can’t see it.”

  “I never said it made sense, or that it was true. It’s just one theory out of a hundred that might explain precognition. Another theory is that precognitive individuals are subconsciously picking up the thoughts and feelings of those around them, or those whose future they wish to predict. They simply make educated, speculative guesses, from information which appears to them in dreams, visions, what have you. That’s why most psychics are wrong a lot of the time. Sometimes their speculations come true; sometimes not.”