Ammie, Come Home (17 page)

“Well, he was awfully nice. It's funny; he didn't promise a thing, and yet I can't help feeling encouraged.”

“That feeling is Dennie Bishko's stock in trade,” Pat said, a bit grimly. “And that's why I said he wasn't the man for the job. Oh, sure, he's a howling success in a fashionable sophisticated parish; maybe he has even given genuine spiritual comfort to some people. But behind that handsome face of his there is not enough strength of faith or belief. We'd do better with a man from a slum parish—someone who has had to wrestle, if not with malignant spirits, at least with the vile things human beings do to one another.”

“We'll see,” Ruth said.

Pat took her elbow to help her across the street and looked down ruefully at the shining head that barely reached his shoulder.

“In your own quiet, ladylike way, you're just as bullheaded as I am,” he said.

 

III

It was many months before Ruth could recall that afternoon without an inward shudder. The Terror—and it rated a capital letter in her thoughts—was painful enough, but this episode violated a sense of human decency as well.

Father Bishko was looking slightly wary when she opened the door, but the charm of the house and of the formal tea service she had carefully arranged soon relaxed him.

“This is a selfish pleasure for me, in fact,” he said, graciously waving away her expression of thanks. “I've longed to see this house. Now that our acquaintance has developed, I may venture to ask if we may include it on our house tour next spring. It's for a very worthy cause, you know.”

“She may not be here next spring,” Pat said, before Ruth could compose a suitably vague but pleasant reply. Father Bishko, accepting a cup of tea with lemon, looked up at him with an arch smile.

“Indeed? Well, we shall just have to make sure that if Mrs. Bennett does leave it will not be because her charming house is inhabited by unwelcome guests.”

They had agreed, during an impassioned consultation the previous evening, that the clerical visitor should not be informed of the details they had worked out.

“It sounds convincing to us,” Bruce had insisted, “because we've seen it develop and we've experienced the disturbances personally. But to an outsider it will seem absolute balderdash. If you insist on this dam' fool stunt, just tell him it's spooks and let him cope.”

“That's all he needs to know,” Pat had agreed. “Furthermore, it will provide another check. If he sees anything, it will not be influenced by our descriptions.”

Ruth was to recall, later, the strange expression on Bruce's face when Pat said this. Bruce had been, unaccountably, against the whole idea of exorcism. Or perhaps, Ruth thought, offering Father Bishko a plate of cookies, it was not so unaccountable. Bruce was probably as ill at ease as his coreligionist in the presence of a priest.

By now, though, Pat had gotten over his self-consciousness and was behaving charmingly. He and Father Bishko were reminiscing about their mutual school days, and both of them seemed to be enjoying themselves.

The streaks of sunlight on the floor were turning from gold to bronze before Sara came in. With her, of course, was Bruce, looking particularly bland and blank. He shook hands with the priest, bowing slightly as he did so, and joined amiably in a discussion of the avant-garde theater. After another half hour of polite chitchat, Father Bishko began making going-home signs.

“Mrs. Bennett, I assure you I'll try to bring your problem before my superiors at once. You'll forgive me if I was a bit brusque this morning—”

“Oh, you could never be that.”

“Incredulous, then. But now that I've gotten to know you better, you and your charming niece…. Obviously, if this matter distresses you, it must be looked into. That in itself is cause enough for me to take action.”

“You are very kind,” Ruth said sincerely. “Especially since you must rely on our word alone for what is admittedly an extraordinary story.”

“I could hardly expect you to conjure up an apparition for me,” Father Bishko said with a smile.

“I was hoping we could do just that,” Pat said. “It's getting on toward that time of day….”

The priest put his cup on the table and looked up alertly.

“Do you mean that it consistently appears at a particular time? And, by the by, what is It? You haven't been very clear in your description.”

“To the first question—no, not exactly, but It normally does not appear until after dark. As for a description—” Pat hesitated, and Father Bishko nodded.

“Yes, I quite see your point. Independent corroboration. Dear me; I must confess, this intrigues me.”

“If you could stay a little longer….” Sara suggested.

“Unfortunately, I'm dining out. In fact, I'm already late for an appointment.” He smiled at Pat with the quick, mischievous look which undoubtedly entranced a number of his parishioners. “If you were alone in this, Pat, I'd suspect you of putting me on. As it is…well, my morbid curiosity is nearly at fever pitch. I would dearly love to see something of this sort with my own eyes.”

Studying those bright, innocent eyes, Ruth was seized by a horrid qualm of apprehension which twisted her stomach muscles into knots. It was a common enough feeling, the sort of feeling that is hailed as a premonition if later events bear it out, and dismissed as “nerves” if they do not. Pat had been right. This nice, happy, shallow man must not encounter their dark visitant. His combination of rationalism and optimism would be the worst possible equipment for such a meeting; they might even act as a challenge to the malignant darkness.

“I'm sorry we can't oblige,” she said with a forced smile, in the tone experienced hostesses adopt to indicate—to experienced guests—that the party is over. Father Bishko rose to his feet.

“Is your apparition confined in space as well as in time?” he asked, peering hopefully about as if he expected a misty white form to be lurking behind the couch.

“It comes—there,” Pat said, pointing.

“Where? Here?”

Father Bishko stood motionless, his face lifted and his eyes half closed, as if he were listening to a voice inaudible to the others. Ruth's apprehension lightened momentarily. Perhaps he might sense something after all.

“No,” Father Bishko said, in a matter-of-fact voice. “I sense nothing abnormal. But my gift does not lie along those lines, as I ought to have warned you.”

“Nothing at all?” Pat asked. He was standing next to the slighter, shorter man and Ruth saw him give a quickly controlled shiver. The priest shook his head. Evidently he did not even feel the cold which was apparent to Pat.

Casually Bruce had wandered down the room into the entrance doorway, drawing Sara with him. From the gathering shadows of the hall his pale face, oddly distorted by the camouflaging beard, peered into the living room like a mask hanging on a wall.

“Before I go,” Father Bishko said, “perhaps you would allow me to say a blessing. It can do no harm and—who knows?—it might do some good.”

He bowed his head without waiting for the answer which common courtesy would have forced on Ruth. She was unable to speak. The formless apprehension had gripped her even more strongly than before, dulling all her senses but one. “Do no harm?” Or would it? She felt something now, just as, it is said, a few individuals sense an earthquake before the first tremor rips the earth apart. The signs were the same—the constricted, aching head, the breathlessness, the hushed air. And the sensation struck her dumb. She could not speak nor move, not even to call a warning.

Father Bishko, his eyes closed and his other senses apparently unresponsive, had no warning from within. Pat had fallen back a few paces at the beginning of the prayer—a rather childish attempt at dissociation, Ruth thought at the time—and when the darkening of the air became visible, he recoiled still farther.

Thus it was from Bruce, hitherto demurely silent, that the shout came. He bellowed, “Father!” in a voice that would have roused the dead, and simultaneously the effect seemed to strike the priest. He opened his eyes then, to find himself face to face with a boiling, seething mass of blackness. It had taken shape with frantic speed—gathering strength with practice, Ruth wondered, or stimulated somehow by the presence of the priest? For Father Bishko, the effect was like waking from sleep to find a visage of dreadful, distorted hate pressed against one's own; the sudden shock of such abominable proximity would have been as bad as the horror itself. But this was infinitely worse; for few men can claim to have found themselves rubbing noses with evil incarnate.

Perhaps no human being could have withstood such a shock; and Father Bishko, despite his calling, was only human. He let out a high, shrill cry, and stumbled back; and the thing bubbled and slid after him.

Bruce's face disappeared, and then a flood of gray light poured into the hall as the front door opened. Ruth knew he was getting Sara out of the house.

Then she caught her breath as Father Bishko, in the doorway, turned at bay. She had never—as yet—seen a more magnificent exhibition of sheer courage, for the man was obviously frightened almost out of his wits. Shaking and pale, he nevertheless stood firm, and presented his crucifix to the face of the Adversary.

It stopped, swaying; again Ruth half expected to see a charred, smoking spot where it had been. For a second it seemed to shrink in, and she felt an upsurge of hope. But it was only gathering itself for the next move. With a sudden, jerking shiver it shook itself into a new shape. The column thickened and darkened, the top shrank and grew round; two projections shot out from a spot about three-fourths of the way up. Ruth cried out and threw her hands up before her eyes; in another moment the Thing would have had the form, but not the face, of a human being.

It was too much for flesh and blood to bear. Father Bishko finally broke, broke and ran, his face altering terribly, dropping the crucifix in his wild flight and sending Pat staggering back.

Not until that moment did Ruth realize that the sounds she had been hearing were coming from Pat. They were not cries of anger or fear, but they were, in a way, even more shocking. Pat was laughing.

 

IV

“I'll never forgive myself,” Ruth said. “Never.”

They sat in Pat's dusty living room. All the feeble aids of physical comfort had been applied—a bright fire, brandy glasses and cigarettes, draperies pulled against the night. Night lights, as Bruce had said, for the frightened children. Each time the efficacy of the gestures grew less; each time it took more effort to shut out the memory of the inconceivable.

“You've no reason to reproach yourself.” Pat's face was lined with chagrin. “I'm the one who should be ashamed. To laugh at a man at a time like that…. But, you know—if you had seen his face—”

“I did,” Ruth said. “Pat, call him again.”

“Honey, he must have gotten home, or to help of some kind. Bruce saw him catch a taxi.”

“I was so worried about you, Ruth,” Sara said. “I couldn't see how you were going to get out. But it just—went away?”

“Yes, as suddenly as it came. It came for him—Father Bishko—didn't it?”

“I'm afraid so,” Bruce said tightly. The physical strain seemed to be telling on him, even more than on the others; his lean cheeks looked sunken, and the glitter in his eyes was almost feverish. Strangely enough it made him look younger instead of older.

“Why afraid?” Sara asked.

“Because the strength and rage are so violent. I swear, it looked like a deliberate attack. But that's not all. I didn't really believe any of the conventional symbols would affect it, but I guess I was still hoping….”

“It means we've found that one potential weapon does not work,” Pat agreed heavily.

“One? What potential weapons are there?” Ruth demanded.

“Oh, dozens, that's the trouble. The religious symbols are the most popular—crucifix, holy water, prayer—but there's garlic, iron, various herbs, beeswax, fire—you name it. You can get rid of an evil spirit by transferring it into a stone, or an animal….”

“How?”

Pat glanced at her and laughed mirthlessly.

“I never imagined I'd use this book this way.” He went to the bookcase by the fire and pulled out a worn green volume, one of a set that filled half the shelf. “Here's the encyclopedia of magical lore, the recipe book for witches, Frazer's
The Golden Bough.
I've acquired a few new ones, but he has most of the tricks right here.”

“Are you ruling them all out because the crucifix had no effect?” Bruce asked. He joined Pat at the bookcase and took down another volume of the set.

“I'm not ruling anything out. I just don't know where to begin. But can you really bring yourself to believe that we should hang a chicken around Sara's neck and wait for Ammie to move into it?”

“Fire,” Bruce muttered. “That doesn't seem very helpful in the present case, does it?” He flipped another page.

“I remember the iron bit,” Sara said. “It's in that lovely Kipling book, is it
Puck of Pook's Hill,
or the sequel? ‘Iron, cold iron, is the master of them all….'”

“I loved that book too,” Ruth said, momentarily diverted. “The fairy people can't stand iron; that's because they aren't cute little sprites in nylon petticoats, but the Old People, the little dark people who used bronze and were driven underground by the iron weapons of the new invaders.”

“How cute,” Bruce said crushingly, without lifting his eyes from the book.

“Something about running water, too,” Sara muttered.

“Or we could acquire some masks and dance around Sara banging pots,” Pat said with sudden violence. “How can one decide which of two impossibilities is more possible?”