Someone in the House (12 page)

Bea frowned. “I suppose joking about a shock is the way your generation handles it.”

I had not been joking. Before I could tell her so she went on, “I’m meeting Roger for lunch. You had better join us. He will want to hear an eyewitness account.”

“Roger? You’re going to tell him?”

“Why not? We need advice.”

I could think of a number of reasons why not, but the decision was not up to me. I had no copyright on the “ghost”; in fact, the problem was Bea’s. Kevin was her nephew, the house belonged to her sister and brother. She had no need to consult me.

“I just don’t like running to some man, like a couple of helpless little females,” I muttered.

“Believe me, I’m not in the habit of doing that either,” Bea said dryly. “My ex-husband was a leaner, not a rock. Roger is an intelligent man, rational and skeptical. Too skeptical, in my opinion, but that quality may be what we need just now.”

I couldn’t argue with that. In fact, the more I thought about it, the better Roger seemed. Feeling as he did about Bea, he wouldn’t dismiss her ideas as menopausal fancies. He was a sophisticated man who had been around—and he was an atheist, or close to it. He wouldn’t mumble about troubled spirits or suggest solving the problem by prayer.

“That’s settled, then,” Bea said. “Now try to sleep. I’ll just stretch out in the big chair over there.”

“You don’t have to do that. I’m not nervous now.”

She didn’t argue, she just smiled and sat down, wrapping the skirts of her robe around her. It was nice to have her there, even if she didn’t resemble the conventional little old gray-haired mom. In a surprisingly short time I felt my eyelids getting heavy. As I drifted off, I thought it was strange that I felt so comfortable. I ought to have been afraid.

6

THE OLD STONEINN, five miles west of us, was one of Bea and Roger’s favorite restaurants. The exterior was charming—weathered stone and dark shutters, shaded by tall old trees. I thought they had gone a little overboard on heavy beams and quaint carvings when they restored the interior; the room was so dark I could hardly see where I was going.

That was the least of my worries. I was absurdly self-conscious at the idea of telling my story to Roger. My state of confusion had not been alleviated by seeing Kevin that morning, all tanned and bright-eyed and cheerful and full of concern for me. He had even let me off playing tennis. There was only one thing. I couldn’t stand the idea of his touching me. When he put out his hands I saw those same hands caressing a melting, twisting horror.

The hostess led us to the table where Roger was waiting. I don’t think he saw me at first. Rising, he took the hand Bea extended, and they just stood there looking at each other. It was rather sweet.

I had wondered how Bea would lead up to the subject we wanted to discuss. There was no need. No sooner had we taken our seats than Roger said quietly, “What is it, Bea? Something wrong?”

“How did you know?” I exclaimed.

Roger made an impatient gesture. “I’ll always know when Bea is upset. Want to tell me about it?”

“It’s very simple,” I said. “Either Kevin is losing his mind, or I am.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Bea said. “I heard what you heard, Anne.”

“I’m tempted to shake you both,” Roger exclaimed. “These dire hints and allusions—” He broke off as the waitress approached to take our order. When she had left he put both elbows on the table and looked at Bea. “Go on,” he said.

Roger’s eyebrows were a performance in themselves. They rose and fell, tilted and wriggled, as Bea spoke. I half expected Roger would laugh, or smile knowingly, at some of her phrases; they were so primly euphemistic. But he remained grave, and when she paused he went unerringly to the main point.

“The second voice. Not falsetto or—”

“It was a woman’s voice,” Bea said. “No, a girl’s voice. Very young, very light.”

“Beautiful,” I added. “Musical.”

“Go on.”

Bea told him about our decision to change rooms. Then she nodded at me.

The words flowed more easily than I had expected they would. Roger was a good listener. By the time I finished, his eyebrows had soared up to his former hairline, but there was neither mockery nor disbelief in his expression.

He turned to the food that was being placed in front of us, remarking only, “Not a bad place to take a break.” When we were alone again he shoved his plate back and restored his elbows to the table.

“All right,” he said briskly. “Let’s get the dirty work over with. Try not to lose your temper, Anne; I have to say these things, to clear the air. You have never been subject to epilepsy, fainting fits, delusions or hallucinations? Have you ever consulted a psychiatrist? Is there a history of mental illness in your family? Do you at the present time take drugs of any kind? Have you in the past ever used LSD, peyote, or any of the other hallucinogens? Are you now or have you ever been a member of any organization dedicated to the proposition that the spirits of the dead can be contacted by the living, for any purpose whatsoever?”

I was angry when he began. By the time he finished I was laughing, and shaking my head like a robot.

“I’m serious, dammit,” Roger said. “I don’t know you. I like you, but I don’t know anything about you. I assume that, like most of your contemporaries, you have played around with grass—come on, don’t be cute with me, I’m sure you have. Unless you were loopy to begin with, it is unlikely that a couple of reefers would send you into that kind of a tailspin, even if you were smoking at the time.”

“Really, Roger,” Bea said indignantly.

Roger’s face relaxed into a fond smile as he turned to her. “Just checking, honey. Don’t you see that in a case like this we have to lean over backward to be rational?” His mouth split wider, into a blissful grin. “God, this is wonderful! It’s so good I’m afraid to believe it. But if it works out—”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

Roger was still gloating. “A real, genuine, honest-to-God manifestation. I never hoped to see one. The SPR will give me a medal.”

The initials meant nothing to me, but Bea recognized them. The bewilderment on her face changed to hostile suspicion. “I hope I misunderstand you, Roger. You would never be contemptible enough to publicize our personal problems, would you?”

“Darling.” Roger grabbed her hand. “Sweetheart, forgive me. That was a lousy, stinking thing to say. I got carried away. If you knew how many years…. Naturally my chief consideration is your well-being. Say you forgive me, or I’ll slit my wrists with the steak knife.”

Bea’s lips quivered. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” she whispered, trying to free her hand. “People are staring.”

“Then tell me you—”

“I forgive you. Roger, let go of my hand.”

Instead Roger put his hand, and Bea’s, under the table. Without taking his eyes from her face he said, “Wipe that smirk off your face, Anne. I know it must be amusing to see the old folks making fools of themselves—”

“I think it’s beautiful,” I said.

“You’re a nice girl.” Roger grinned at me. “To show my genuine regard for you, I will now proceed to deliver a well-organized, methodical lecture. Ready for it?”

“I have a feeling I’m going to get it whether I’m ready or not,” I said.

“Go on, Roger,” Bea said.

“I’m sure most of these theories have already occurred to you. I just want to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything. First, we have the possibility that the two of you imagined the whole thing—or rather, that you misinterpreted what you heard. Of course that theory implies that Bea is a frustrated, neurotic female and that Anne’s not only equally neurotic but idiotically susceptible to suggestion. I don’t believe that. Do you?”

“Hardly,” Bea said.

“Second: Kevin is the one suffering from delusions. You say, and I will take your word for it, that he appears to have no conscious recollection of what he does and says during his midnight—shall we call them ‘encounters’? This theory still leaves Anne looking feebleminded; it assumes her visual hallucinations were induced by Kevin’s actions. I don’t believe that either.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“De nada. Third, and most probable: what you heard was real; what you saw was really there. There is something in the house, some psychic force, that manifests itself under certain as yet undefined circumstances. Kevin sees it as a beautiful, desirable woman. This force may work directly on the auditory, tactile, and visual centers of the brain, or it may take on physical form, palpable enough to give Kevin…”

He glanced at Bea.

“I understand,” she said quickly. “That’s very interesting, Roger, but you are omitting a fourth and, to me, much more plausible interpretation.”

Roger let out a long, pensive sigh. “I was afraid you were going to bring that up.”

“She’s right,” I said. “If we are going to consider your psychic force, you have to consider—well—a ghost.”

“The word is not the one I would use,” Bea said. “It is too loaded with negative connotations, some humorous, some merely silly. I would rather put it this way. You said, Roger, there was ‘something in the house.’ Why not ‘someone in the house’?”

I started. Bea glanced at me. “You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” I said reluctantly.

“A presence,” Bea went on. “Call it a soul or a spirit; it is personalized, it has identity. Why not, Roger? Every one of the world’s great religions, and most of the pagan cults, accept the separateness and the survival of a spiritual body apart from the flesh.”

“Your Church isn’t crazy about the idea,” Roger said. “Organized religion has been the strongest opponent of spiritualism and psychic research.”

“Because spiritualism is a dangerous, unlicensed interference in matters that ought to be left to those trained to deal with them.” Bea was very much in earnest. Leaning toward Roger, she tried to hold his gaze. His eyes dropped, avoiding hers.

“It’s too damned—what is the word I want?—too childish! You know the classic ghost stories—they’re all like something Dickens or Thackeray might have written, the plot devices neatly worked out to make sure the characters, living and dead, survive happily ever after. You say you have a sense of presence—of someone in the house. That’s a common phenomenon. I don’t know what the psychological term may be, but I’ve felt it myself when I was relaxed or absorbed in something. Let me ask you this, Anne: did you have any such impression last night?”

“I meant to ask you that,” Bea said. “There is a mistaken impression that such entities must be malevolent or hostile. And that blasted statue did come close to hitting you. I couldn’t help wondering…Well, Anne?”

I had to think about it. “I don’t know,” I said finally. “It was so monstrous-looking, so messy. I’ve often wondered how humans will feel if and when they encounter an alien race that is benevolent but utterly dreadful-looking. The mere strangeness of appearance can cause us to recoil, even if—”

“Cut out the philosophy,” Roger said rudely. “I see what you mean, and so does Bea. What you felt was horror of the unfamiliar and unexpected, right? No specific threat.”

“I guess so,” I said; but I had an uneasy feeling that I was being led.

“But that proves my point,” Roger exclaimed. “The forces I am hypothesizing are neutral by nature; they don’t possess or project emotions.”

“It also supports my hypothesis,” Bea said firmly. “An earthbound spirit, bewildered and confused—”

“Bull.”

Bea scowled at him. “I intend to consult Father Stephen. Roger, if you swear at me again, I’ll leave.”

“Sweetheart, I would never swear at you. But why the hell do you have to drag him into this?”

“He is trained to deal with spiritual problems.”

“Look here, he’s a friend of mine; I like the guy. He’s reasonable and intelligent—on all subjects but one. The mere mention of the Holy Ghost sends him into airy flights of fancy. Damn it, Bea, he’ll try to exorcise it!”

“That might not be a bad idea,” I said. “Maybe a little exercise is what it needs. A long walk every morning, a swim in the afternoon.” My feeble attempt at humor got the response it deserved. Both of them turned outraged stares onto me. “All right, so it wasn’t funny,” I said. “Roger, your diagnosis is neat and logical, but I don’t care all that much what the cursed thingis ; I want to know what todo about it. Have you any practical suggestions?”

“I have one.” Roger’s voice was deadly serious. “Move out of that room. Right away.”