Late at Night (11 page)

But the other characters! They had different names, but were the same people who were sleeping in the guest house this very minute, Ernie was sure of it. There was the gossip columnist, on her way out, trying to recapture her youth by taking a young man for a lover. The sexy TV actress, that was Cynthia, though Mr. Schumann named her Glynis. Lynn, and Ernie’s cousin John, were represented—very accurately, too. Alison Petrie the psychic, sounded suspiciously like Andrea Peters, the psychic. Alfred Sutter, a temperamental, extremely ugly concert pianist, had to be Schumann’s conception of Anton Suffron, and “plain, plump Esther Sonderson” was Betty Sanders to a tee. Even Everson’s servants, Margaret the cook, the two housekeepers, Hans and Eric, had their literary equivalents. It was absolutely uncanny.

Ernie spent more time trying to figure the whole thing out than he did reading. Everson had told him that the details of the expedition hadn’t been fully confirmed until a couple of days before they left the mainland. Ernie knew enough about publishing to know that while they could on occasion rush out a paperback within a few weeks’ time, it was impossible to write, sell, edit and print—and distribute—an entire novel within the space of a few days. Even if “Max Schumann” was a friend of Everson’s, or someone in the party, or Everson himself, no way could he gave gotten Bellamme Books to come out with
Late at Night
in such a short space of time. But Ernie’d be damned if it didn’t look like someone had put together a speculative horror novel based on this very trip to Lammerty Island.

That every person here—no more, no less—would be represented, described physically and characteristically, with such near-perfection, was simply incredible. Ernie knew it all had to be one wild, improbable, implausible, but nonetheless undeniable
coincidence.
That’s all that it possibly could be. The only other explanation he could think of—and it seemed senseless—was that John Everson read or wrote the book, or knew who wrote it, and for some reason gathered together people who would correspond to the characters in the novel. But that every character would have a real-life counterpart who also happened to know John or Lynn was simply unbelievable. And why bother getting them together in the first place? No, it all had to be an absurd coincidence, one of life’s bizarre happenstances, nothing more. Yet why had the book even been on the island, on that bookshelf where he could find it? He shivered— why did it have to be a horror novel? Couldn’t it have been a nice, safe romance or something? Alison Petrie and Andrew Tennington fall in love and uncover the mystery of Hargity—in the book it was called Hargity Island—while “Glenda Borrance“ (Glo Bordette) and the others have an orgy on the beach. Yes, that would have been so much nicer.

He anxiously turned the pages, hoping to come upon obvious contradictions or fallacies that would immediately confirm that the book was an eerie coincidence and nothing more. But the more he read the more he was convinced that there was something strange and inexplicable going on. He yawned. God, he was getting tired, really tired in both body and mind, not just enervated as before. Funny, how suddenly this fatigue had come upon him. He wiped his eyes, but the blurriness wouldn’t go away. Then he read a passage that nearly brought him back to full alertness.
“Why is there blood all over me?” she kept screaming. Mrs. Pelling said, “Over and over again: ‘Why is there blood all over me?’ The poor girl. But once we calmed her down and put her to bed, we looked her over and couldn’t find a single injury, not a mark upon her. Yet she was convinced she was bleeding.”

The cook, “Mary Pelling,” was explaining to her employer and his guests why the housekeeper had had a fit earlier in the evening.

“Says she saw something horrible in the mirror when she got out of the shower,” Mrs. Pelling said, her eyes wide and frightened.

“Oh, this is just too much,” Ernie said out loud. He was really getting a case of the creeps. He was afraid to read the next chapter. What if it described “Andrew’s” walk down the beach with “Alison.” This was crazy! How could anyone have
guessed
what was going to happen? Maybe this Max Schumann was a psychic like Andrea.

But did that mean that the bloodshed and death promised on the back cover was also going to come true?

Ernie couldn’t shake the numb, chilling feeling in his chest. The book had taken on a macabre, sinister quality. It was the setting, too. Lammerty Island’s scary reputation made him almost willing to believe that this book was an object sent from the spirit world, the astral plane, whatever they called it, to torment him. If he had picked up a book back in New York, discovered it took place in his building, his apartment, and that the main character was himself, it would have been frightening enough. But to have it happen on this island was enough to make his blood freeze.

Relax, Thesinger,
he told himself. You’re a sensible, rational person. Don’t let it throw you. There has to be a logical, rational explanation.

But there was nothing logical or rational about it.

He quickly skimmed the next couple of chapters. Yep—there was Andrew and Alison walking to the ship. It was written from Andrea’s point of view, and Ernie suddenly realized what she must have been going through back there. Had she really picked up the thoughts, the terror, from drowning strangers, the agony and horror of their underwater deaths? Was that what it was like for someone like Andrea? To spend your life picking up the most secret, horrible thoughts, without wanting to, your mind like a receiver that you simply couldn’t shut off? It was mind-boggling. He wasn’t sure if he believed in Andrea’s powers, but if she really meant what she said, what a strain, a constant strain, she must be under. It was a miracle she came off as normal as she did. He had to be more thoughtful in the future.

He had to show this book to Andrea. Perhaps she could explain it. He wondered—had she ever mentioned being able to see into the future? Maybe she—or someone she knew—was “Max Schumann.” The eerie atmosphere surrounding the wrecked ship was fully exploited in the part describing “Alison’s” encounter with it.

All right—this is it.
Now Ernie was going to start the chapters which would describe what was going to happen after Andrew and Alison
returned
to the guest house. He was almost afraid to look. He was hoping what the author had come up with was so absurd that there was no way he could find it believable. As tired as he was feeling, he could not safely go to sleep until
Late at Night
no longer held its power over him.

Chapter 19

On the other side of the guest house, Joanne Nobele lay wide awake in bed, shivering with fear, smelling the odor of her own released urine. She was listening to the whispers now. Urgent, terrible whispers. The crying had stopped at last, about fifteen minutes ago, and she had felt such wonderful relief, such relief that she had wanted to get out of bed and wake Mrs. Plushing and tell her she wanted to leave Lammerty Island that very minute. Before then she hadn’t dared to get out of bed, hadn’t even dared to open her eyes, afraid she’d see the crying spirit if it decided to manifest itself, afraid she’d walk right into a cold wet blob of ectoplasm as it glided across the room to touch her.

But then, just as she’d been building up her courage, she heard the new sound. Soft at first, almost unintelligible, then building in volume until it was like one of those stage whispers, loud enough for the whole audience to hear. Joanne had nearly screamed. She had tried to, several times, but always her throat closed up and her voice froze, and it was all she could do to keep from fainting and being at the mercy of whatever horrors there were loose in this house.

She could make out what the ghost was saying very clearly now.
Why did you do this to me? I thought you loved me, Jeremy. I thought surely you loved me. Why don’t you love me anymore?
The poor thing was pleading with him, whining as if he were in the room with her, whispering so no one would discover them. It was the keening and pleading of a young girl in love, disillusioned. A young girl used and abandoned.

In her terror, a thought started growing in the back of Joanne’s mind. Suppose she was to be possessed by the creature next, for she was sure that was what had happened to her friend Emily, still sleeping soundly in the bunk below. What if it should—God help her—enter
her
mind, force her to run about the way Emily had? What if, like Emily, she imagined herself to be bleeding from every orifice, wet, red blood pouring down her naked limbs like gushing water. No, she couldn’t stand to think of it. No.
No.
Only now did she fully realize what Emily must have gone through.

Why don’t you love me anymore? I thought you loved me!

The housekeeper’s nerves were at the breaking point.
Scream, Joanne. Scream. Mrs. Plushing will get up and turn on the lights. Scream. Just open your mouth and scream!

Instead, she found herself opening her eyes.

Six feet away from the bed, hobbling pathetically across the room, was an apparition. It was a girl, no older than she was, naked, her eyes hollow and staring off into space. Blood was pouring out of the numerous jagged cuts in the flesh of her arms and stomach and breasts. Her face wore the most terrible, haunted,
evil
expressions that Joanne had ever seen on anyone. She looked quite dead, her skin dry and corpse-like, but she shambled towards the bunk bed jerkily, as if somehow animated from within.

Joanne felt her heart pounding. Her body shook violently as she waged an inner battle in a vain attempt to shake off her fear and call for help.

The bleeding woman was at the edge of the bed now, her body just below Joanne’s bunk and out of her sightline.

Was it the housekeeper’s imagination? Or did she feel the groan of the springs of the bed underneath, as if the ghost-creature was stepping onto the lower mattress. No, it couldn’t be. Emily would have woken, screamed. Joanne couldn’t see anything anymore. The whole thing must have been a hallucination created by her fear and by her overactive imagination.

Then a gnarled, bloodstained, long-nailed hand covered with a multitude of seeping sores poked up from below and grabbed hold of Joanne’s mattress, and the long dead servant girl began slowly, painfully, pulling herself up onto her bed.

Chapter 20

Ernie was flipping pages as fast as he could read, fascinated, resisting the morbid compulsion to flip to the end and see if
“he”
survived this imaginary (or was it?) adventure. What he’d read so far was enough to turn his hair white. There was some spooky stuff supposed to go on in the guest house that night, but he’d skipped over that rather quickly so he could see what was going to happen “tomorrow” before he fell asleep. The urge to put the book down, close his eyes, and go to sleep was nearly overwhelming. It was all he could do to keep his eyes focused on the page in front of him.

Grisly. Awful. Such goings on. According to Mr. Schumann, one of Everson’s male employees was going to be dispatched—the characters’ new names confused him and he forgot exactly which man it was—sometime tomorrow. And those poor housekeepers. They were going to expire in a particularly gruesome manner. He blinked a few limes, rubbed his eyes. He was too tired to concentrate well on the story. He’d just finished reading about somebody, one of the women, getting lost on the island, and he’d already forgotten which woman it was. He was not only blurry-eyed, but vague, disordered thoughts were invading his consciousness just as they did when he began to fall asleep; a mixed-up jumble of words, ideas, and pictures from a dozen different people, magazines, and articles. Flip to the end, he told himself. It is most important to find out how it all ends. In case, just in case it turns out to be true.
Impossible,
he scoffed. But he had his doubts. Indubitably, this had to be the scariest book that he had ever read, since it was made to order, exploiting his own personal fears. What else could you expect from a book in which you were the main character?

He read a little bit more, aghast at the fates in store for his companions. But he had to give up. He was just too tired. His eyes fell shut involuntarily. The book dropped out of his hands. In that mixed-up jumble of thoughts one thing came through loud and clear. According to
Late at Night,
one of the housekeepers was going to go through hell tonight.

“Andrew Tennington” had read the early portions of the book
he
had found—yes, that was in there, too, the bit about finding a book set on the very same island, a story within a story within a story—and then he had fallen asleep.
Same thing’s happening to me,
Ernie thought, drifting deeper and deeper into slumber. Right about now, this is when that horrible thing is pulling itself up onto the bunkbed where the terrified housekeeper is lying. Right about now, this is when the housekeeper sees the corpse-like horror getting into bed with her and opens her mouth and screams.

Ridiculous, Ernie thought, smiling in spite of his fear.

And that’s when—though he was too tired to rouse himself and investigate, too tired, almost unnaturally so, to do anything but lay there semiconscious—he heard the sound of a scream coming unmistakably from the servants’ quarters.

PART THREE

Morning

Chapter 21

The members of the Lammerty Island expedition were all down having breakfast by 10 o’clock that morning. Gloria was chipper and buoyant, talking about the wonderful seaside air and what it did for her beauty sleep, constantly chatting about how refreshed and fulfilled she felt. She seemed oblivious to the smirks some of the others wore when she talked about being “fulfilled.” Sitting next to her smearing jam on his English muffin, Jerry looked positively exhausted.