Down a Dark Hall (10 page)

The opportunity to talk with Natalie did
not come immediately. It was not until several days later, in the evening after dinner, that Kit saw her chance.

The meal had been a subdued one without the usual conversation. Jules had eaten early and driven into town for the evening.
Professor Farley had not come to dinner, as he was engaged in doing some writing and did not wish to be disturbed.

“This is how it is with professors,” Madame Duret explained lightly. “They must always be publishing something. Perhaps the
day will come when some of you girls will be doing the same thing.”

Lynda was not at the table either. She had sent word by Ruth that she was not feeling well, and Madame said that a tray should
be carried up to her.

“I’ll take it,” Kit offered, as they were being excused from the table.

“That is kind of you, Kathryn,” Madame said. She paused, as though about to add something, and then evidently decided against
it.

As she climbed the stairs, Kit realized that it had been weeks since she had been inside Lynda’s room. The last time she had
seen it, she had been impressed by its femininity. The bureau top had been a field of cosmetics; artificial roses had blossomed
in a vase on the desk; and the mirror had been edged with a full circle of photographs, all of Lynda herself, smiling coyly
up at a variety of admiring boys. The romance novels that Lynda loved to read had stood in a row on the bedside table, flanked
by delicately carved gilt bookends, and a pillow shaped like a pink kitten had been propped on the bed.

Now when she entered, she was startled to find that, as Ruth had stated, the room resembled nothing so much as an artist’s
studio. An easel stood by the window where the morning light would fall. The canvas mounted on it was only partially completed;
it was a warm, mellow-colored picture of a woodland scene in which a girl’s slim figure knelt by a winding stream. Trees bent
above her in a great arc of green, and the reflection in the stream gave back the laughing face of a forest nymph.

Other pictures, in various stages of development, leaned against the walls or were piled in a heap in the corner. It was hard
to beleive that Lynda had created all of them in such a short time.

“Hi,” Kit said. “I brought you some dinner. Madame said you weren’t feeling well.”

Lynda was stretched out, fully clothed, upon the bed. She was wearing no makeup, and her hair lay oily and matted against
the pillow, as though she had not bothered to wash it for a long time.

She glanced at the tray and wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, but I really don’t want anything. I’m not at all hungry.”

“You need to eat,” Kit said. “You’re getting thin.” The words were true. Lynda’s eyes seemed huge in her pretty face, and
the delicate tracery of her cheekbones stood out beneath the normally perfect skin. Now that skin had a yellowish cast.

“I said, I’m not hungry,” Lynda said peevishly. “I’m just tired. I’ve been working hard.”

“I should say so, from the looks of things.” Kit nodded toward the picture on the easel. “That’s going to be nice.”

“Is it?” Lynda said. “I guess so.”

“What are you going to put over there?” Kit gestured toward an unfinished area in the foreground.

“How should I know? It’ll come to me when I get the brush in my hand.” Lynda turned her face away and threw an arm across
her eyes. “Take that food out of here, okay? I can’t stand the smell of it.”

Kit regarded her with concern. “I hope you’re feeling better tomorrow.”

“I will be,” Lynda said. “I’ll have to be. There’s so much to be done. He wants so much. There just isn’t any stopping.”

“
He?
 ” Kit caught at the word. “What do you mean? Who is it who wants so much?”

“Please,” Lynda said, “just let me be, won’t you? I’m so tired. We’ll talk another time, okay?”

“Okay.” Kit stood a moment longer, gazing down at the slender form on the bed. Was this Lynda Hannah, the bright-faced girl
with the lilting laugh, whose sole worry less than two months ago had been the fact that there was no Internet connection
and she couldn’t chat online?
She’s changed,
Kit thought. Not just a surface change, but all the way down inside.
She’s not the same person
.

“Lynda,” she said softly, “please, tell me. Something’s happened. Can’t you tell me about it?”

The girl on the bed did not answer. Her breathing was slow and deep, and Kit realized that she was already asleep.

Natalie was scraping plates when Kit brought the tray back down to the kitchen. She glanced at the untouched plate and shook
her head.

“Won’t eat, huh?”

“She says she’s tired,” Kit said.

“Funny,” Natalie said. “Nobody’s eating the way they used to, except for the men, maybe, and Madame herself. What’s with you
girls? All coming down with something?”

“I hope not,” Kit said, setting the tray on the counter. She paused, knowing that this was the opportunity for which she had
been hoping. “Natalie, can I ask you something?”

“You know I’m not supposed to spend time talking to you girls.” Natalie was silent a moment, then her curiosity got the better
of her. “What is it you want to know?”

“About Blackwood. It’s been here a long time, hasn’t it? You must have heard a lot of things about it.”

“It’s an old place, sure,” Natalie said. “But Blackwood is the new name for it. It used to be called the old Brewer place.
Nobody lived here then. It was all grown over so you could hardly see through the fence, just the roof sticking up.”

“How do you know?” Kit asked. “Did you look through the fence and see?”

“Well, we all did,” Natalie said, with a note of defensiveness in her voice. “All of us kids, I mean. There were so many stories
about it. Teenagers used to come up and park in the driveway.”

“Did you?”

“Once or twice,” Natalie said, flushing slightly. “Nothing happened. We didn’t see anything. I figured the ones who said they
did were just making up stories to scare the rest of us.”

“What did the others see, or pretend to see?” Kit persisted. “Did they ever tell you?”

“Lights in the windows. Shapes moving around. Things like that. Of course, old man Brewer was supposed to have been pretty
strange himself back when he lived here. Anybody who’d live alone in a place this size would have had to have been a little
bit off.”

“He lived here alone?” Kit exclaimed. “Just one person in this huge place?”

“Well, not in the beginning,” Natalie said, as she loaded the dishwasher. “When he first moved here he had a nice family,
a pretty wife and three or four children. The place was kept up fine then with servants and gardeners, and what Madame Duret
has made into an apartment for the professor, that was a real carriage house. Then one night there was a fire. Mr. Brewer
was away on a business trip at the time, and they never did find out how it started, but it was in the bedroom wing where
the family was sleeping. They had to bring the volunteer fire department up from the village, which took a long time because
it was a Saturday night and a lot of the firemen couldn’t be located. By the time they got up here and got the fire under
control, it was too late.”

“You mean Mr. Brewer’s whole family died?” Kit asked in horror. “His wife and all the children?”

“They say it was the smoke that did it,” Natalie said. “There wasn’t that much damage to the house. When Mr. Brewer got home
and found out what had happened, he got rid of all the servants and barred up the gate. From then on he lived here alone.

“He’d go down to the village for church on Sundays and talk about the family like they were still there, still living in the
place with him. Or he’d go to the grocery store and say, ‘The missus wants me to pick up some things for her,’ and he’d buy
candy and stuff for the kids and cereal for the baby.”

“That’s horrible!” Kit gasped. “The poor man! How long did this go on?”

“Years and years,” Natalie told her. “Talk got started around the town that his family was living here with him, as spirits.
Once he called a man to fix the plumbing, and the man said that somewhere in the back of the house he heard a baby crying.
After that, he couldn’t get people up here to do anything.

“When he died, it was weeks before anybody knew it. Finally they started wondering about his missing church one Sunday after
another. So they came up here, and there he was, on one side of the big bed. They say there was a hollow next to him, as though
somebody had been lying there.”

“After he died,” Kit asked, “what happened then?”

“They got hold of some distant cousins who came in to bury him. They didn’t want the place, and after the funeral they listed
it with a real estate agency. It was really weathered down when Madame Duret bought it. She’s had a lot of work done—the grounds
landscaped and the roof repaired—and, of course, she had the sleeping wing fixed up so you girls could live there.”

“The sleeping wing,” Kit said slowly. An icy shudder went down her spine. “You mean the wing where we’re sleeping is where
the fire took place?”

“That’s right,” Natalie said. “But you’d never know it, she’s got it remodeled so nice. The help she hired from the village,
though, they didn’t like cleaning up there. Said it gave them the creeps. That’s why they quit.”

“Natalie!” A low, strong voice spoke from behind them.

Kit turned quickly to see Madame Duret standing in the kitchen doorway. The woman’s face was pale with anger, and her black
eyes were blazing.

“Natalie, you had your instructions not to spend your time talking with our students!”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Natalie said contritely. “I don’t do it often.”

There was ice in Madame’s voice. “Your instructions were not to do it at all.”

“It’s not Natalie’s fault,” Kit said. “I’m the one responsible.”

Madame’s eyes shifted to rest upon her, and Kit felt the power of them touch her with the force of an electric shock. It was
as though two needles had thrust themselves through her body.

“You must have homework to do, Kathryn,” Madame said. Her voice was like steel. “I would suggest that you go upstairs to your
room and get started on it. Natalie is responsible for her own actions. She does not need you to defend her.”

“But she only—” Kit began, and the words faded from her lips under the penetration of that black stare. She tried to look
at Natalie, but she was unable to move her eyes. Against her will, she found herself moving from her position by the kitchen
sink.

As though of their own accord her two legs began to carry her step by step across the kitchen and through the door into the
dining room.

And into the outer hall.

And up the stairs.

And down the dark hall to her room.

When she closed her eyes the music began. No longer did it hold back until she slept; it seemed now to lie just behind her
eyelids, waiting for them to drop, so that as soon as she went into inner darkness the music was there. With increasing power,
it took over the edges of her mind and crept relentlessly toward its core.

I’m dreaming,
Kit told herself firmly, but she was not completely sure that was true. She was too conscious of the pillow beneath her cheek,
of the blanket across her shoulders. She knew that she was cold.

If I open my eyes,
she thought,
it will be gone
.

But will it?
an inner voice whispered.
Are you certain?

“I’ve written another poem,” said Sandy.

“Oh?” Kit did not meet her friend’s eyes, but she felt her stomach begin to tighten in nervous anticipation.

“I’m not doing this alone,” Sandy said. “Ellis is helping me. She’s a wonderful writer. She’s even published a novel.”

“Sandy, please,” Kit said wearily. “I wish you’d stop talking about this woman as though she were a real person.”

“Listen, now,” Sandy said. “See if you like this.

“Stop! Please, stop!” Kit held up a restraining hand. “I don’t want to hear the rest. It’s morbid. It sounds as though you’re
dead
.”

“I thought you’d like it,” Sandy said in a hurt voice.

“Well, I don’t. What’s happened to you, Sandy? We used to laugh so much together. Remember the jokes we used to tell and how
we planned to short-sheet Ruth’s bed? We were going to have a party one night too, and sneak a lot of food up to my room and
make it a midnight feast.”

“Do you still want to do those things?” Sandy asked in wonder.

“No,” Kit admitted. Somehow the plans that had sounded like so much fun in the early days at Blackwood now seemed childish
and ridiculous. Sandy glanced down at the poem in her hands.

“Ellis doesn’t think it’s very good,” she said. “She doesn’t want me to submit it to a publisher or anything. She thinks we
can do better.”

“You’re doing it again!” Kit interrupted in exasperation. “You’re talking about this—this dream person as though she were
real!”

“Is she a dream?” Sandy asked slowly. “When she talks to me, it’s so sensible and right. I’ve been thinking, Kit, do you remember
what Ruth was saying about all of us having various forms of extrasensory perception?”

Kit nodded.

“Well, what if I’ve used mine to tune in on somebody, a real person who is living somewhere in the world and has a mind that
operates on the same wavelength that mine does. Is that impossible?”

“You mean you think that somewhere there really is a woman named Ellis?” Kit asked incredulously.

“Why not? She doesn’t have to be anywhere near here or even in this country. In fact, I have a feeling she
isn’t
in this country—the way she speaks and her references to things like moors and yew trees—she may live someplace like England
or Scotland.”

“It isn’t possible,” Kit said. “People don’t communicate through dreams. They write letters or e-mails, they make phone calls—”

“Don’t yell,” Sandy said. “You’re making my head hurt. I can’t explain this, Kit. Ruth’s the one who’s the expert on scientific
happenings. All I know is that Ellis is real to me, more real than any dream could be. Whether or not you like her poetry
doesn’t matter. I like it, and I’m happy to be the one she communicates it to.”

Her narrow face was flushed with anger, and Kit felt her own temper flaring in response.

“You sound like a twelve-year-old who has a crush on a movie star! Except that with a movie star at least you can see her
on the screen.”

“Shut up,” Sandy snapped. “I’m sorry I ever told you about Ellis.”

“You didn’t have to
tell
me. I heard you screaming, remember? You didn’t think this super poet was so great
then
!” Try as she would, Kit could not bite back the sharp words. “It’s this place, this terrible place! It’s doing something
to you! You’re getting almost as crazy as Lynda!”

But Sandy had already turned on her heel and left the room, pulling the door shut hard behind her. Exhausted, Kit let herself
fall back across her bed. The intensity of the argument left her drained and vaguely frightened. Sandy was her friend, the
closest friend she had in this strange, fenced-in world of Blackwood. How could she possibly have spoken to her in such a
way, actually accusing her of being insane? Why were Sandy’s rationalizations any less to be respected than her own or Ruth’s?
If Sandy was crazy, then they all were.

She should call her back and apologize. She knew it, and yet her weariness was so great that the effort was more than she
could make. She raised her hands and pressed them tight against her eyelids, and felt the throbbing in her head which meant
the beginning of the music.
I won’t listen,
she told herself.
This time I’ll defeat it. I won’t lie here and listen
.

But as had happened that night in the kitchen when Madame Duret had ordered her upstairs, her body would not obey her mental
command. It lay upon the bed, and like an audience at a concert, Kit felt the music rushing upon her, soft at first, then
louder and stronger, picking up pace and volume.

“Sandy!” she longed to cry. “Sandy—come back! Come help me!”

But although she could feel her throat straining with the words, they were lost in the music. Louder now, it came building
and building to what she knew would soon be a crashing crescendo.

Too tired to combat it, she stopped resisting and let herself go, to be carried like a leaf in a rushing current of silent
sound. Eventually she slept. She was not conscious of this happening, but when she opened her eyes the afternoon light had
faded from the sky beyond the window and the room was dark.

And there was cold. So much cold that she did not know if she could move. Her whole body was leaden with the weight of it.
It was the same strange cold that she had felt in Sandy’s room on that night so many weeks ago, a chill too intense to be
natural, touched with the sensation of dampness and a faint odor that she could not place.

For a few moments she lay there, unmoving. Then, with a gigantic effort, she stretched out her hand and found the lamp. The
light sprang on, and the familiar room came into being around her—the dresser, the desk, the gilt-edged mirror, the arched
red canopy over the bed. Fighting the lethargy that threatened to drag her back into unconsciousness, Kit got up and went
to the closet for a sweater. Taking it from its hanger, she thrust her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up to the neck.
The cold seemed to slide through the heavy material and seep into her very pores.

Shivering violently, she glanced at her watch. Six forty-five. Downstairs in the dining room dinner would be under way. She
could picture the great round table under the twinkling chandelier and the group that would be gathered around it: Madame,
stately and gracious; friendly, bearded Professor Farley; Jules, handsome and brooding. Ruth would be at the table. And Sandy.
I’d better go down,
Kit thought,
if only to see Sandy
.
If I don’t, she’ll think it’s because of our argument
. The sooner things could be made right between herself and Sandy the better.

The thought of food made her feel slightly nauseated. Still, anything was better than staying alone in a room that was as
cold as a tomb.

Stepping out into the hall, Kit pulled the door closed behind her and locked it. The air was warmer here, but she still found
herself shivering. At the far end of the hall the dim bulb threw out its faint circle of light, and the whole corridor seemed
made out of shadows.

Slowly, Kit began to walk down the hallway toward the stairs. In the mirror at the hall’s end she saw a thin, white-faced
girl in a heavy-knit sweater moving toward her.

Is that me?
she thought, momentarily startled by the girl’s appearance, the dullness of the eyes, the limp, uncombed hair, the heavy,
methodical walk. Was this the same Kit Gordy who had bounced down this hallway only a matter of months ago, eyes shining,
face alight, to greet her new classmates?

I look awful,
Kit thought wretchedly. And then, as she tilted her head, she caught sight of him, the person walking behind her. In horror
she stood there, frozen, one foot lifted for the next step, her eyes staring into the other eyes reflected in the mirror.

It can’t be,
she told herself.
There can’t be anyone behind me. The hall was empty when I came out of my room. Anyone behind me now would have had to have
come out of it with me, and that’s impossible
. And yet the man was there, his image as clear as her own, standing so close behind her that it was incredible that she did
not feel his breath upon the back of her neck.

Dragging in her breath, Kit did the only thing that she could do. She closed her eyes and screamed.