Seduction: A Novel of Suspense (39 page)

This is what I know about calling him forth:

It must be twilight or evening.

It must be either at the séance table or down by the sea. In the last two years he has appeared at seven séances and seven times either
near or inside the cave with the fantastic paintings. I believe that is his dwelling place. Lucifer’s Lair, I have taken to calling it.

And the sea is where the ephemeral creature feels most at home. He even visited me on board a sailboat.

That was the next to last time I ever saw him.

It was the second week of October, and Robert and Pauline St. Croix were visiting from Paris. The weather was fine, and our next-door neighbor, Monsieur Rose, had offered to take us out on his charming sloop. My wife had sent fruit, cheese and wines ahead. We were all in good spirits as we set out. Overhead the sky was without clouds and the slight breeze promised perfect sailing conditions.

Adele, my wife, seemed happy that day, which pleased me since she did not altogether enjoy Jersey. She called it provincial and never really stopped missing Paris. No political regime lasts forever, and I tell her soon we will be able to return to our beloved city. I do hope the government doesn’t make me a liar for much longer.

The relationship between a man and his wife has its seasons. As the carriage approached the dock, I looked at Adele and thought about the young girl whom I’d fallen in love with, and who since had surprised me in so many ways. Some wonderful, others heartbreaking. I wondered: If she had not been the first of us to take a lover, had not strayed so far, how would I have fared? How different would everything be if she had not been the one who introduced infidelity into our lives? Would I have eventually been unfaithful regardless? We would never know.

I took her hand.

She turned to me and smiled. “I think we should stop the table tapping,” she said in a kind, concerned voice.

It was the very last thing I had expected her to say.

“It’s not Christian,” she continued.

Robert, who was, like me, against the Church but not against God, asked, “Why is that?”

“It’s unnatural. The concept of speaking to the dead was at first novel and seemed a game. It has turned into a macabre obsession. It has turned our house into a mausoleum.”

“But we have been able to talk to Didine,” I said.

Adele lost both her firstborn and her second born. She has been tested. That a mother can endure that and survive at all is a miracle. My wife is not a hard woman, but she has become practical in a way that can seem rigid at times.

“We have not talked to her, Victor. A wooden leg has bounced against a tabletop. That is not our daughter. What we are doing is prolonging our grief.”

“How do you know that is not her?” I asked.

“Husband, you sound like a fool. What is it that you hope will happen? That the table will turn to flesh and blood?”

“Of course not!”

“You know what I am saying is right,” Adele said softly, even kindly. “It will be best for all. Our live daughter, our precious Adele, is becoming ever more nervous by the day. All this talk of the dead and the departed is affecting her.”

Perhaps Adele was right. We’d been at it for two years, and I’d conversed with so many spirits by now, I had to refer to my records to remember some of their names. Perhaps I was becoming obsessed in a way that wasn’t healthy.

“Yes, yes, as you wish.”

“But please, not until we leave?” Pauline asked. “I was hoping we could experience one of these séances. Just one more before you give them up?”

I looked from our guests to my wife, who nodded in acquiescence.

So we would have one more séance and then bring them to an end. I felt, if truth be told, some measure of relief. Perhaps if the séances stopped, my shadowy visitor would come no more.

The first half of the boat trip proved a pleasant excursion. The repast was delicious, the sea was calm, the company stimulating. As we came in sight of the Elizabeth Castle, our host told our friends the story of my heroic rescue of the fishmonger’s daughter—the legends of which had grown to include me fighting off a pack of attack dogs. I was quick to correct him and his exaggerations.

“And that wasn’t Monsieur Hugo’s only rescue,” Monsieur Rose
continued, and proceeded to tell Pauline and Robert about the second child I had found, in Lucifer’s Lair. He pointed toward the shore, making me aware for the first time how close that cave was to the castle where I’d found Lilly.

“Two children? That’s suspect. Don’t you think, Hugo?” Robert asked.

“Of course,” I answered. “The authorities are concerned someone on the island is behind it and is somehow using his dog to lure the children. Every father with a daughter is afraid.”

“How old were the girls?” Robert asked.

“Ten and twelve,” I told him.

“Well, they are certainly old enough to explain what happened to them. What do they say?”

“They both tell the same story, but it makes little sense,” Rose explained. One of the volunteer policemen, he imbued his recounting of the story with official gravitas. “They describe a large black dog, beautiful, with honey-colored eyes, that came to their window and barked and whined and seemed to be in distress. So much so, they went to tend to him. Once they were outside, he let them approach and then led them away. Neither child remembers many details after they went to their respective destinations: the castle in the first girl’s case and the cave in the second. Where they should have memories, there simply are none.”

“Well, they should try mesmerism,” Pauline said. “Hugo, you know of it, don’t you? In addition to health benefits and cures, don’t they say that it allows your hidden and forgotten memories to come to the foreground?”

“Yes, and I’ve suggested it,” I said. “I had good luck with it in Paris. But there’s no one on the island who knows how to administer it.”

Just then the weather began to change. Brutish dark clouds blew in from the west, hiding the sun and casting us in gloom. The winds picked up. The sea grew restless and rough. The boat was suddenly being tossed from side to side.

“I think we’d best head back to shore,” Rose said. “These squalls can come and go quickly, but I’d rather not take a chance. This one looks exceptionally bad.”

As he brought the boat about, the wind picked up yet more power, and he struggled with the jib.

“Do you need help?” I asked.

He welcomed the offer and suggested first I get everyone below and show them how to tie themselves to the bunks. “Men have drowned in better weather than this. You can be swept off a boat in seconds.”

As soon as the words left his lips, I saw the horror flash in his eyes as he realized what he’d said.

I rushed to help safeguard my wife and friends and had just returned to the deck when the full force of the storm hit.

Looking back, trying to recount it, I cannot fully explain that next half hour any better than I can explain anything else that’s happened in Jersey.

Even at my worst, after Didine had been taken from us, I did not ever seriously contemplate taking my own life. Nothing is as valuable to me as an individual’s right to freedom. Death was not a possible solution for my grief. But from the moment I tied myself to the mast and set to helping Rose bring the boat to port, the sea called out to me with the insistence of a lover. Whispering soft entreaties, she beckoned me to let go, to give up on my struggles, to liberate myself from the sadness. With death would come peace, a final and complete cessation of questions. I would experience what my darling Didine had experienced. Be reunited with her. And would finally be freed from the temptations the Shadow was constantly placing in front of me.

Thank goodness for the ropes, or I would have willingly slid off the deck. That was the power of the hold the Shadow had over me by then. I would have considered giving up my own life to get out of his grip.

My wife was right. I resolved, after that night, there would be no more séances.

The storm blew away as quickly as it had come upon us. The wind died down. The rain ceased.

Adele and our guests returned to the deck. As we passed by the section of beach where Lucifer’s Lair was, I could see, despite the dark, a large dog standing on the rocks above, staring out toward us. He howled,
and the sound traveled over the water to reach us. Inside it somehow, I heard a familiar soft-spoken golden voice, whispering to me.

Bravo, Hugo. I was afraid there for a moment I’d lost you. And we have so much left to accomplish between us.

“Do you hear that?” I asked our host.

“The sea?”

“The dog.”

He shook his head.

As Monsieur Rose had said, the menfolk had never stopped trying to track the creature. Organizing search parties, they took shifts walking the section of island to which they’d been assigned. I knew their cause was hopeless. Other than the children and myself, no one had seen the dog. And no one would, not if they hunted day after night. The hound was an aberration. He would never reveal himself to them unless he had a reason. But there was no way I could tell them to call off their search. No way to make them believe me.

That evening, after dinner and postprandial brandy, as our guests had requested and my wife had agreed, we held our last séance. Adele was too considerate a hostess to do anything less. Both my sons and my daughter joined us.

We extinguished the kerosene lamps, lit the candles and set up the table. François-Victor was ready with his paper and pen and ink to record the number of taps.

I noticed that my daughter looked pale and the circles beneath her eyes exaggerated. I suggested that she go up to bed, but she shook her head.

“I have to be here in case she comes,” Adele said, her voice tight and nervous.

Yes, my wife was right, we had to end this obsession. We all wanted our dear Didine back too much. Desired to talk to her with too great a longing. We were not past our grieving and more than a dozen years had passed. It was time. Perhaps ending these sessions would help.

“Who is here?” my wife asked, once we all had our fingers touching the round wooden stool.

The atmosphere in the room was pleasant. There were none of the
odd odors or cool breezes that sometimes accompanied our less than desirable spirit guest. And there was no response from the table.

My wife tried again.

The table began to tap, and at the same time I heard the voice in my head.

“It’s Shakespeare,” I said. For once I wasn’t disappointed that it wasn’t Didine. I was just relieved that it wasn’t the Shadow.

There were murmurs of surprise from Robert and Pauline, who then began to ask questions in earnest. For the next fifteen minutes, the tapping continued without dark incident. And then I felt the cold come in the room. Smelled the smoke and ash I had come to associate with the arrival of the Shadow.

Were there two spirits in the room? Had one left as the other arrived?

I glanced at the faces of those around the table. No one but me seemed to have noticed.

For a few more minutes the tapping continued. Shakespeare hadn’t left and he was still communicating with us. And then suddenly the candles went out of their own accord. Darkness overwhelmed us.

Pauline exclaimed. “What has happened?” she asked with trepidation in her voice.

“Nothing at all,” my wife said, as she began to rise to relight the tapers. “Just the wind. Let me—”

“No, do not break the circle,” Robert said in an almost harsh tone. The request was so forceful, Adele remained seated, her fingers, like mine, still on the stool.

Beside me I felt my daughter tremble. “What is it?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “There’s something not right.”

“With what?” I asked.

She pointed to Robert, our guest.

How can I explain this?

There was enough moonlight coming through the windows for me to be able to gaze upon my friend and see his face clearly. His musculature had changed and he no longer looked quite like himself. Certainly his hair was still gray and his mustache still thick. The scar
on his chin was still visible. But his mouth had hardened and narrowed. His flesh had tightened. His eyes were filled with someone else’s soul, as if he’d been taken over from the inside.

“You have to follow,” he said to the others. His voice was foreign.

Impossible! I tried to deny what I alone heard in his voice.
Whom
I heard in his voice.

“Robert?” his wife asked, her voice panicked. “What is wrong?”

He didn’t turn to her, didn’t respond.

I thought it must be some kind of trick of the acoustics of the room. The shadow could not be speaking through Robert!

“Follow whom, what?” I asked.

“The path you have started to walk.”

“My political efforts? My novel?” I asked.

He laughed sarcastically. “She’s waiting to come back. You can’t disappoint her now.”

“What does he mean, Victor?” my wife asked. She was always suspicious about my other relationships. I feared she assumed Robert was talking about another woman.

Pauline started to cry. “Why do you sound so strange? What is wrong? Robert?”

Her words were like the annoying buzz of a fly. I turned to her and told her to be quiet. “He’s fine. Stop whimpering.”

My wife glared at me, but I ignored her.

“What do you mean?” I asked the man who was talking to me through Robert. “Who is waiting?”

“You know the one of whom I speak. She doesn’t have the strength to wait indefinitely. It takes great effort to hover between two worlds. You must do this, and do it now.”

“What’s going on, Robert?” It was Pauline again. I didn’t even bother to tell her to shut up this time.

“How can I? The price is too high.”

“How can you not?” the spirit asked.

Beside me, Pauline fainted. My wife jumped up to attend to her. The continuity of our fingers on the tapping device was broken. I still had questions to ask, but it didn’t matter anymore. The entity
had abandoned my old political ally’s body. Robert looked like himself again and was utterly unaware that anything strange had occurred.