A Family Affair: A Novel of Horror (5 page)

Beneath its silver cover, the tray was empty. Not really empty; neatly arranged on its surface was an assortment of dishes, cups, tableware, even a neatly folded napkin. But the dishes and the various containers were empty. Not one scrap of food marred their rather astonishing cleanness.

“Oh,” she said aloud; and again, “Oh.”

She rose from the bed, starting impulsively across the room, then came to an abrupt halt.

Perhaps they really were mad. Or perhaps, as seemed more likely, this had been intended as a joke. She had a great deal of experience with that, ranging back to her childhood. The other children had often teased her in such a fashion, encouraging her with friendly gestures to do things that afterward were revealed as foolish, so that they could laugh at her. Funny Jenny, they had called her, and not only behind her back.

And for all she knew, the family was waiting for her somewhere, downstairs, or even just out in the hall. If she went marching out in search of Aunt Christine, she would give them their opportunity to have a good laugh at her expense.

There was the possibility too, she tried to console herself, that it was not a joke at all, but an honest mistake. There were reasons enough to suspect that the inhabitants of Kelsey House were a little eccentric. Aunt Whoever-it-was who had delivered the tray might simply have forgotten to put the food on it, in which case she would only be making a scene by protesting and making herself unpleasant.

“It can wait until morning,” she said firmly. She removed the tray once again to the dresser. After all, she really wasn't hungry. In the morning, after a good night's rest, she would politely mention the matter of the tray to Aunt Christine, and no doubt there would be a perfectly logical explanation for it.

With a renewed if slightly less firm patience, she began to undress. She put her simple gray suit in the armoire on the single hanger that had been provided there, making a mental note that she would have to ask for more hangers.

The light switch was on the wall across the room and by the door, with the result that she stubbed her toe on the stool trying to find her way back to the bed. She stood still for a minute or two, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Amazingly enough, the small opening provided by the drapes did allow a bit of moonlight to filter into the room through the dusty window. After her pause, she was able to make her way to the bed without further mishap.

She pulled the sheet up to her chin, uncomfortable without her flannel nightgown. Despite her discomfort, however, and a day that had been trying on the nerves, her exhaustion had its way with her. She fell quickly into a deep and dreamless sleep.

She awoke with a start. For a moment the room and the bed were unfamiliar to her. It came back to her finally—the long drive and its conclusion. She was at Kelsey House, as a house guest. It was the middle of the night and something had awakened her. Someone had called her name; no, that wasn't possible, surely. She had dreamed it.

She peered into the darkness, her eyes slowly becoming adjusted to the darkness and the sudden awakening. She made out the dresser and the armoire, and the stool.

A movement from the direction of the hall door caught her eye. There it was again—faint, billowy, a white robed figure. With a tightening in her chest, she realized that there was someone in her room, someone in white who moved with maddening slowness toward her bed.

She lay motionless, her breath held in tightly. For the first time it occurred to her that she might be in some danger, alone with a houseful of people she did not know, who from all indications were far from normal. It was this thought that kept her from speaking out, from demanding to know who was there. She clutched the sheet tightly in her hand, watching through half closed eyes as the figure in white drew nearer. She could make out the form now of a woman—long dark hair falling about the shoulders, hands outstretched toward the bed. The face was in shadow.

Should she speak, Jennifer thought, demand an explanation for the intrusion? Or wait to learn the identity of her visitor. Or perhaps she should leap from the bed, make ready to defend herself?

Her teeth clenched to keep them from chattering, she closed her eyes, just as she had done when as a little girl she had been frightened in the darkness. Maybe whoever was here would go away. Maybe it was only a bad dream. If she pretended to sleep, it would just leave, surely.

The seconds crawled by. Frozen with fear, she listened for some sound, some indication of what was happening. The house lay silently about her. The room itself seemed to be waiting, listening.

Why was there no noise? Had her visitor, as she hoped, gone away?

A hand brushed lightly against her face, a hand soft and so cold that it seemed to stop the blood in her veins. Jennifer nearly screamed. She bit sharply into her lip to stifle the cry that rose in her throat. Her body trembled and shook, seized by an inexplicable chill, and she felt a warning turn in her stomach.

Oh God, she thought, I'm going to be sick.

CHAPTER FIVE

The touch of that icy hand was brief, and did not come again. The room remained silent. At last, unable to contain herself any lo
nger, she bolted to a sitting position, her eyes springing open. The room was empty! She was alone!

She stared about in confusion and fright, doubting her own senses, but the room was really empty. She pinched herself once to determine that she was awake.

With the diminishing of her fear, she became suddenly angry.

“That is the limit,” she said aloud, not caring if anyone heard. She almost hoped they did hear, in fact, even if it did hurt their feelings. She was not accustomed to having strangers parading through her bedroom, pawing over her, to say nothing of frightening her to death.

Bounding noisily from the bed, she marched across the room to the door and switched on the light. The lock in the door was complete with key. She turned it angrily, locking herself in, and any intruders out. So much for moonlight visitors. Aunt Christine would hear about quite a few things in the morning, and if she offended them that was just too bad. There was a limit to what they could expect a person to tolerate without complaint

She reached for the light switch; then, changing her mind, she left the light burning and returned to bed. At least if there were anything further in store, she would not be in the dark.

This time it took longer for her to go to sleep. She listened for a time, thinking that her visitor might return and try the door, in which case she would tell someone a thing or two without waiting for morning.

As it happened, though, there was no further disturbance. At length she fell asleep, this time rather fitfully.

When she awoke again, it was morning. And her visitor had returned. At least, there was someone in her room. An elderly lady, looking older even than Aunt Christine, stood by the dresser. A tiny, birdlike creature with silver white hair and sparkling blackbird's eyes, the woman was humming to herself, a sad, hauntingly familiar melody. She wore the same peculiar white robes that Aunt Christine had worn the night before and her hands, like twin doves in flight fluttered about in the air over an empty vase on the dresser.

“Oh, good morning,” the stranger greeted her when she saw Jennifer's open eyes. “I hope I didn't startle you.”

“Yes, you did,” Jennifer said, and at once wondered sleepily if she had been too blunt. The memory of her nightly intrusion came back to her then, and with that memory came some of her previous annoyance. “Not nearly so much as you did last night” she added, more sharply.

“Oh, did I see you last night? Were you on the lawn for the rites?”

“The rites?” It took Jennifer a moment to grasp the fact that the woman was referring to the strange goings-on she had seen on the lawn when she arrived.

“No, I was not,” she replied coolly.

The stranger took no apparent notice of the coolness.

Her hands, as she spoke, continued to flutter about the empty vase, tugging at the air, patting it.

“Well then I couldn't have seen you last night. I left the rites early, only because Aunt Christine told me it would be all right, mind you. Let me see—oh yes, then I brought a dinner tray up here. After that I went straight to bed. I always retire early.”

Jennifer hesitated to argue the matter. There was not really any evidence that it had been the same woman in her room the night before, and perhaps she was rash to make that assumption. They all seemed to wear the same robes. Better to take that matter up with Aunt Christine who, so far as she knew, was the mistress of the household.

Nonetheless, it was certainly disconcerting to find people wandering in and out of her room at will.

“How did you get in here?” she asked, suddenly remembering the locked door.

“Through the door,” her visitor answered, quite as though it should have been obvious to anyone. As indeed, Jennifer told herself, it should have been. She opened her mouth to point out that the door had been locked, but her visitor interrupted her before she could mention it.

“Heavens, here I am chattering away with you,” the woman said, “And I haven't even told you who I am. I am your Aunt Abbie.” She beamed as though this bit of information should make everything quite clear.

“I see,” Jennifer said, and, after a pause, she asked, “If it's not too rude of me, what on earth are you doing with that vase?”

“Why, I'm arranging the flowers. They're from my garden, you know. Aunt Christine says that no one can do as well with flowers as I do.”

Jennifer looked again at the vase, then slowly about the room. If there were any flowers in the room, they could only be hidden under her bed. For a brief second she almost leaned out of the bed to look under there.

Now I'm beginning to act as oddly as they do, she chided herself.

“I'm especially pleased with the roses this year,” Aunt Abbie went on proudly, giving a final tug at one of the unseen roses. “I don't know when I've seen such colors. There, I think that will do. I thought that you might appreciate some fresh flowers in your room when you awoke, and Aunt Christine said it would be all right. I hope you don't mind.”

Jennifer was on the verge of telling her, manners or no, that she did mind, but again she was interrupted before she could begin.

“I almost forgot, I brought a robe for you,” Aunt Abbie said, pointing to the foot of the bed.

That much at least was real. There, draped neatly across one corner of the bed was another of the peculiar robes that seemed to be the uniform of the household. Jennifer poked it with her foot.

“That's very kind of you,” she replied, making an effort to sound grateful. “But I think I'll manage with the things I've brought. I don't suppose the caretaker has fetched my luggage yet?”

“Why, we have no caretaker.”

Jennifer sighed and spoke as she would speak to a child. “Well, whoever he was, the point is, I would like my luggage. Has anything been done about it?”

“Your luggage?”

“Never mind. I'll take it up with Aunt Christine,” Jennifer said. This conversation was plainly getting her nowhere. “What time is breakfast?”

“Just as soon as you're up,” Aunt Abbie said, looking pleased to have finished with the subject of the luggage. “But don't you rush any now. We'll be there whenever you're ready.”

Jennifer did smile; it was maddening trying to talk to Aunt Abbie, but she was sweet, and she did seem genuinely eager to please. Aunt Abbie went out, closing the door gently after herself.

When she was alone, Jennifer remembered that she had not asked about the lock, or even about the dinner tray. Things were happening too fast for her. On an impulse she crossed the room to the door. No, the door was unlocked. And the dinner tray was gone. Had Aunt Abbie taken it with her? No, she had left empty handed, unless the dinner tray, like the roses, had somehow become invisible. Perhaps the nightly visitor had only been someone coming after the tray.

Maybe, she thought, maybe I dreamed the whole thing, the dinner tray, the nightly visitor. She had pinched herself, but what did that mean? She might have dreamed that she pinched herself.

With a shake of the head she tried the only other door in the room. It led to a bathroom, complete with tub, of an antiquated variety, but a tub nonetheless, and a basin and stool.

“Well, at least I have the comforts of home,” she said to herself, adding, “More or less.” For that she could no doubt thank the sisters who had installed the wiring, before the house burned; or else the unidentified relative who must have rebuilt the house after the fire.

She turned a faucet and waited patiently for a few seconds. Nothing happened. In dismay, she turned the other faucet over the basin, and then the two at the tub, leaving them all open. Not one drop of water came out. The ingenious relative had not, it seemed, carried his modernization project to its completion.

She returned to the bedroom. The robe, still lying on the bed, caught her eyes and she snatched it up. For a moment she felt the impulse to rip it apart, to vent her annoyance and frustration on the delicate fabric. With forced calm she dropped it to the bed again. She was not a woman to lose her temper, or give free rein to her emotions. This was unpleasant, true, but she would remain calm. That was what she had always done, and what she would continue to do.

For the moment she would make do, and when she had her chat with Aunt Christine, she would ask about the lack of water. And later, when everything had been satisfactorily put in order, they would all laugh about these silly little inconveniences, she along with the rest, and no one would think of calling her “funny.”

She removed her suit, the one she had worn the day before, from the armoire and donned it. It was crumpled and anything but fresh, but at least it was better than that silly robe they had provided her. And if she could not clean up, she at least had a comb in her purse, and some fresh lipstick. Thank God she still had her purse.

The results of her efforts, as viewed in the mirror over the dresser, were somewhat disappointing, but with a final assurance that they would suffice, she left her room and made her way down the stairs to the hall below.

Once at the bottom, however, her courage paled. She had seen nothing of the downstairs portion of the house the previous night with the exception of the hall itself and the room in which she had waited for Aunt Christine. It was a vast house, and the long rows of doors, still all closed, stretched cheerlessly down either wall. Where on earth was she to find the others? Aunt Christine had provided her no directions for finding the dining room, nor had Aunt Abbie thought of this difficulty.

She started slowly down the hall, listening for the sound of voices to tell her which room they were in. She reached the opposite end of the hall without hearing a sound. Whatever faults these people possessed, no one could accuse them of being boisterous at breakfast.

The little room she had seen before was empty. There was, she discovered, another door leading from it or she could return to the hall and start trying the other doors along its length. From outside the house had looked frighteningly large; she had the impression she could wander for days seeking its occupants.

“Now that's silly,” she scolded herself. “They are here, in the dining room, and that can't be too far away from the parlor.”

She decided upon the little door that led from the opposite wall of the room she was in, but it offered little encouragement. It opened to another hall, a small one, that led at first glance nowhere. A closer look told her that it had at one time gone somewhere after all, but one end of it had long since been boarded up, literally chopped off by the addition of a makeshift wall. With mounting regrets she tried one of the two doors offered by the remaining section of the little hall.

Another empty room presented itself, this one a study or a den of some sort. It was in fact difficult to tell what purpose some of the rooms might have served. They seemed to be furnished simply for the sake of filling them up rather than serving any particular need; but then, with so many rooms, many of them would be rather superfluous, no doubt.

Another door led her into what might have been a pantry, except that there was no evidence of a kitchen nearby. No doubt it was some sort of storage room, no longer needed. All the rooms were covered with the same layer of filth that she had seen everywhere she had been so far.

The room beyond was another den, or perhaps a library, judging from the case of books on one wall. This one had any number of exits, one of which led her into—what? A bedroom? There was a bed, a metal framed affair, but the bed seemed more like an afterthought. Perhaps, she concluded, a makeshift sickroom for some member of the family who had been unable to manage the long flight of stairs to the second floor.

Room after room seemed as lacking in apparent function as the first, and each of them as empty of any occupants. She had intended to leave the doors open behind her, but the first two had swung stubbornly shut and she had given up the attempt. Now, as she tried to retrace her steps, she found herself in still more rooms; different ones, she thought, from the ones she had already seen. Or were they? It was impossible to say. The furnishings were not much different from one room to the next.

Of course if she reentered the room with the bed or the little pantry-storage room, she would have recognized them, but despite the certainty that she was following the same route she had taken, she saw neither of these two rooms. She came into room after empty room, and there were doors, more doors than she would have thought possible in any single house.

With sudden panic, she realized that she was lost. For a moment she felt an impulse to run from door to door.

“This is ridiculous,” she told herself firmly, fighting back that urge to hysteria. “No matter how big this house is, these rooms can't go on forever.”

The statement was lacking conviction. If ever a house could go on forever, she was ruefully afraid that Kelsey House would be the one. It wasn't a house at all, it was a maze, a web of useless rooms and closed doors; and it was laughing at her. The house itself was watching her, laughing at her confusion and fright. She could feel it. At any moment she expected it to say, “Jenny, Jenny, eat a daisy, Jenny, Jenny, you are crazy.”