Crying Child (21 page)

I came out onto the familiar landing, and there was light again, from the small window on the wall. It was a chilly, pallid light, the visible emanation of the cold that numbed me. The crying was all around me now, it filled my head with a buzzing agony of sound. When my obedient body stopped before a certain door, my mind knew it, and was not surprised. The captive hand reached for the knob and turned it; and the door swung open.

Moonlight cast the shadow of the barred windows out across the dusty floor. Thicker shadows clustered batlike in the gaping mouth of the open fireplace. The room was not empty. It was filled with sounds and movements. Mice, said the last desperate voice of sanity inside my beleaguered brain; mice, the sounds when an old house settles…With a creaking shiver, the white bulk of the rocking horse swayed. A chiming echo, almost too dim to be heard, might have been the ghost of a music box, sounding faintly across a century.

The cold was savage here, this was the core
from which it came. I stood as if frozen to the floor, incapable of movement. The crying had stopped when I opened the door, but the shifting hints of movement were worse than the sound. Then I turned my head and saw her standing by the cupboards in the farthest corner.

I saw her take shape. If I had ever hoped to deny her nature I could no longer do so; she formed her body out of the shadows themselves, wrapping them around her like garments. There was a ray of moonlight, I think, or perhaps she shone by her own pale light. I saw her face plainly now. The hood was thrown back…. No, the hood and the cloak were gone. Of course, I thought; she is inside the house. One does not wear a cloak or coat inside. I felt my unwilling feet move, carrying me through the door and into the room.

Her dress was dark, as the cloak had been, but there was a suggestion of white at throat and wrists—or was it only the moonlight shining through her? The hair was dark, pulled smoothly back. The eyes…My eyes dropped, affronted by those pits of darkness. Her other features were uncannily distinct—the long tight mouth and narrow nose, the uncommon breadth of the cheekbones and the way the face narrowed abruptly to a pointed chin. There was a mole near the corner of her mouth—the left corner.

I thought at first that her absolute stillness was
her most terrifying attribute. It was horrible because it violated the normal categories of experience. No statue could counterfeit life so expertly; no living thing should be so still. There is some movement, however slight, in any living creature—the lift of the breast, the beat of the pulse in the throat. No pulse, no breath moved the creature that stood before me.

I was wrong, though. Her stillness was horrible, but motion would have been worse. I knew, because she tried to move.

I saw the hideous effort before I heard the sound that must have prompted it; but that sound was perhaps the only thing that could have broken my paralysis. With an effort so great that it felt like muscles snapping, I turned away from the writhing white face and pushed my resisting body into position across the doorway. The footsteps I had heard were running; and as my arm went out, barring the door, Mary threw herself against it.

I was stronger than she was, even then. The cold that sapped my strength weakened her too, I heard her teeth chattering. It seemed to me, though, that the cold was slightly less; or perhaps it was my need that warmed me, the need to keep Mary, by any means, from seeing the thing that stood in the corner, fighting to break whatever bonds held it motionless. I forced Mary back out
of the doorway; and then my numbed throat relaxed, and I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The sound was horrible in that ringing silence; I was appalled myself at the crash of it. It did seem to crash, and it seemed to break something. I knew, without looking behind me, that the shadowy form was gone. Mary dropped forward over my arm, and simultaneously I heard voices and pounding footsteps below as the others woke and came after us.

8

“I DON’T KNOW WHY WE DON’T JUST GIVE UP,” RANsaid, and grinned feebly at me as I turned a startled face toward him. “I mean, give up trying to keep a normal schedule. We could sleep all day and face the fact that we’re going to be up all night.”

Will was not amused.

“This can’t go on much longer,” he said. “It’s too hard on all of us physically—not to mention the other effects. And I can’t stay here every night. I’ve got my little responsibilities at home.”

“Your being here didn’t make any difference tonight,” I said.

“No.” Unoffended, Will studied me with interest. “You were the heroine tonight. Now that the
pandemonium has subsided, would you care to tell us what happened?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I said wearily. “Let’s not have another conference now. I’m dead tired.”

That wasn’t the reason why I didn’t want to talk. Anne was with us. She hadn’t appeared until most of the excitement was over, and her impeccable coiffure and makeup filled me with fury. I didn’t blame her for not wanting to appear in the curlers and night cream I was sure she used, but any doctor who puts her appearance ahead of an emergency is a lousy doctor.

She was wearing a gorgeous pink robe which flattered her complexion. She crossed her legs and looked at me.

“It must be nearly dawn,” she said.

“It’s twoA.M. ,” I said crossly, swallowing a yawn. “I haven’t been to bed at all.”

“Then you were awake when Mary left the room,” Ran said. “I wondered why I didn’t hear her and you did.”

“I didn’t hear Mary. I heard the crying.” I had stopped worrying about Anne and what she thought. “It was the same sound we heard that other night, only it came from inside the house. I followed it, up to the tower, to the room that used to be the nursery. She was there—the woman. I saw her face this time, saw it so plainly that I’d recognize her in the middle of a crowd. Mary fol
lowed me, or else she heard the crying too, I don’t know. When I heard her I knew I had to keep her out of that room—”

“Why?” Anne asked. She didn’t sound critical, only curious. The question irritated me, all the same—probably because there was no reasonable answer.

“I don’t know why. I just knew she shouldn’t go in there. It was wrong. Bad.”

“I see,” Anne sat back in her chair and reached for a cigarette.

“You didn’t see, that’s just the trouble. Unless you’ve experienced something like this personally, you can’t believe it.” I turned to Will, who was watching me with a face as unreadable as Sanskrit. “I don’t blame you either, but I’ll be damned if I can understand why you didn’t see that—that thing—on the terrace this evening.”

“I did,” Will said. He added, “Why do you think I almost squeezed your arm off?”

I gaped at him, torn between relief and anger.

“You son of a gun,” Ran said. “Why the hell didn’t you speak up?”

“In front of Mary?” Will hesitated. “Okay, I’ll be honest. It really threw me, that’s why. I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept my mouth shut.”

Anne cleared her throat and got up.

“Mr. Fraser. I’m not trying to put you on the spot. But—it was you who came to me, if you re
call; if you have decided to dispense with my services, that’s up to you. However, if you want me to stay on, I think you ought to be candid with me. All of you.”

Will crossed the room and put his hand on Anne’s arm. They made an odd couple standing there together, she in her immaculate elegance and Will with his hair standing straight up on end, wearing a robe that most tramps would have sneered at. But his smile was persuasive. I wasn’t surprised when her stiff face relaxed and she smiled back at him.

“Sit down,” Will said. “You’re right, Doctor, we owe you an apology and an explanation. After you’ve heard it, you’ll probably walk out on us. I wouldn’t blame you.”

It was a masterful exposition that he gave, accurate and impartial. The last shred of Anne’s antagonism vanished as she listened. When he had finished she said thoughtfully,

“I—honestly, I don’t know what to say. You’ve missed your calling, Will. If anyone else had told me a story like that one, I’d have laughed. Or, as you said, walked out.”

“It’s true,” I said. “Every word of it.”

“Jo.” Will glared at me. “I know exactly how Anne feels. You see—” He turned back to Anne, and I saw the way his eyes shone, his anxiety to convince her. “You don’t know, Anne, how we
have been literally forced into this explanation. You don’t know Bertha Willard. I do, and I tell you, it’s easier for me to believe in ghosts than to think Bertha would imagine something like this. Nor have you heard the weeping; it is indescribable. Without that background it’s no wonder you’re skeptical. I would be too.”

“And neither of you knows Jo the way I do,” Ran said. “She isn’t subject to hallucinations either. Nor does she lie.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I needed that.”

“You are all convinced, then,” Anne said briskly, “that the phenomena are supernatural?”

She looked soberly and inquiringly from one to the other. No one spoke; I guess the word still embarrassed us. She nodded.

“I see. Well, in that case—excuse me if I put it badly—but I don’t understand what you want with a psychiatrist. Shouldn’t you consult the SPR, or a medium?”

I didn’t realize, at first, why the idea shocked me so. I turned to Ran and saw the same repugnance in his face. Will said violently,

“Good God, no. That’s the last thing we need!”

“That’s interesting.” Anne got out another cigarette. She glanced at Will, but he was lost in an unpleasant reverie, frowning at his own thoughts; and after a moment she shrugged, smiled slightly, and reached for the table lighter. She went on,
“Why does the suggestion rouse such consistent and violently negative feelings?”

“My patients up here don’t go in for séances,” Will said. “But I’ve read of cases of people getting hooked on spiritualism. A fraudulent medium can prey on the patient’s emotions and worsen the fixation.”

“Oh, certainly,” Anne said. “And many, if not most, of the practitioners are frauds. Even a sincere stupid hysteric could do considerable damage. But they aren’t all frauds, you know. The Society for Psychical Research is a reputable body.”

“No,” I said. “No séance. Good Lord, no.”

“Why not?”

I knew that sooner or later she was going to ask “why” once too often, and I was going to blow my top. But I hadn’t quite reached the boiling point yet. And damn it, it was a fair question.

Why not?

“Oh, I know the answer,” I said gloomily. “And I’ll bet Ran and Will feel the same way, even if they are too chicken to admit it. I’m not afraid of a fake medium, or a séance that flops. I’m afraid of one that might succeed.”

Ran nodded in silent agreement. He looked disturbed, but I knew he couldn’t possibly be as revolted by the idea as I was. He hadn’t seen the thing that would come in answer to such a summoning.

“Why should you be reluctant to admit that?” Anne asked in her dulcet professional tones. “Given your basic premise it’s a perfectly reasonable fear. But let’s pursue this argument one step further. If you are, in fact, dealing with a—what did Hamlet call it?—a perturbed spirit, then surely there is only one thing you can do. If the spirit is earthbound and unhappy, it ought to be laid to rest. Isn’t that right?”

She had selected me as her opposite in the discussion, and as her cool, intent eyes fixed themselves on my face, I felt the way I used to feel when debating with a more skillful opponent. I was being backed into a corner by logic even while I knew, with a sense that transcended logic, that I was right. I always had a sneaking sympathy for Socrates’ opponents in those dialogues.

“Yes,” I said reluctantly. “I guess so.”

“No, you mustn’t agree with me out of politeness,” Anne cooed. “If you have reservations, speak up.”

I gave myself a mental shake.

“If the spirit is human and earthbound,” I said, “then—well, according to the stories I’ve read, you call in a priest or minister and exorcize it. There’s a procedure, isn’t there?”

“No,” Anne said decisively. “I mean, there is a procedure, but you don’t want that. You’ve never heard the service, I don’t imagine. I have. It casts
the spirit into outer darkness. ‘I exorcize thee, thou foul spirit…in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ be rooted out and put to flight from this creature of God.’ And so on.”

“How the hell did you know that?” Will asked.

“One of my patients thought he was possessed,” Anne said briefly. “I hardly think the effect on Mary would be beneficial.”

“You are so right,” I muttered. “Good heavens…So why did you bring it up?”

“You brought it up,” Anne said, with a slight snap in her voice. “I didn’t mention exorcism. I was thinking of another procedure entirely. Modern spiritualists don’t exorcize an unhappy spirit, they try to reassure it and, if you’ll pardon the expression, push it over the threshold into Paradise.”