The Sorcerer's House (18 page)

A fox barked, and my hand no longer held a woman's. Something raced away, too big and too dark, too near the ground. It vanished in an instant.

I pressed on, thinking in a dazed fashion that Doris had to be somewhere ahead. For an interval that felt like hours, nothing more happened. I walked on, always down the slope, sometimes feeling my way with my hands, periodically cursing my stupidity for not bringing my flashlight, and reminding myself over and over that the distance should be no more than half a mile. I felt that I had walked five miles at least, and if you had said eight or ten I might have believed you.

The undergrowth grew thicker; I pushed through it and saw sunshine glaring from water.

Then a young woman, reclining on a fallen log. For one insane instant I thought her back was covered with hair. A moment later I realized it was only that her hair was long, dark, and tangled, seeming never to have known a comb; and that she wore the shaggy pelt of some animal.

Without looking at me, she said, "Sit down. You need a rest."

I thanked her and sat down on the log near her naked feet, panting. The water appeared far clearer than it was when it flowed past my house; if there were houses, garages, or barns on the opposite bank, I could not see them.

"I like you."

"And I'll like you, I'm sure, when we've come to know one another better." It was all I could think of.

"I will do you no hurt."

I said, "That's good. You are quite safe with me, believe me. I've never forced a woman."

"Do you think I fear you?" Her snicker was almost a snarl.

"I hope you don't," I told her, "since you've no reason to."

"Your kind always think themselves dangerous. What have you done with my head?"

I understood then--as I should have the moment I saw her--that she was psychotic. Now I feel sure that she is a psychopath. I sincerely hope you have never had to deal with such people, Millie. I have, unfortunately, and more than once.

"Have you no answer?"

"I haven't touched your head. As I said--"

She sprang up and faced me, all high cheekbones and blazing eyes. "Your servant carried it in to you. What have you done with it?"

"Oh, that head. I didn't know it was yours. Didn't it belong to some unfortunate nurse?"

"It's mine!"

"I understand. Old Nick--I suppose that's who you mean by 'your servant'--had it when I left the house. I'll get it back for you if I can. Would you like me to keep it for you? I would turn it over with pleasure and alacrity anytime you asked."

"Throw it in the river. It will come to me."

"I . . . see."

"You don't believe me." She laughed, and there was everything a laugh can have in hers except humor--beauty and ugliness, mockery, cruelty, and madness. "Listen now. Hear me."

I listened, and heard precisely nothing. A minute dragged past.

Something was struggling up out of the river; it was mostly white, touched here and there with carmine. Not until I caught sight of the foot did I realize that it was a human leg. As it struggled onto the mud bordering the water, its stench came with it.

"This was to be a gift for the boy who calls to me. Sometimes gifts go astray." She had risen and turned to face me. "It found its way to the water instead. To the water and to me. What is your name, man?"

"Bax."

"I am Lupine." She did not offer to shake hands, at which I felt a surge of joy. "The boy lives in your house. Tell him I hunt for his sake. I will kill again soon."

"Not me, I hope."

"Not you. I will have you for a friend." She smiled; her smile was terrifying. "Whether you will or no."

I said, "I'd like it very much if we were friends." It seemed safe.

"Then do not disturb my gifts. Let him find them." A fox barked some distance away; she looked angry but made no motion.

"Believe me, I shall. May I tell him they're there?"

"That will help." She smiled again.

I rose, backing away. "I think I'll go back to the car I came in. If you don't mind."

"Wait." She pointed to the leg. "Would you like that?"

"No, I--no."

"I don't relish carrion myself. Will you need these?"

They were keys, half a dozen a least, on a key ring from which a pink plastic rabbit dangled; after a moment, I recognized them. "Please let me have them," I said. "I'm sure Doris will want them back."

It evoked the terrifying smile.

"Where did you get them?"

She laughed and tossed them at my feet. When I stood up she had gone, leaving the leg rotting in the mud.

Millie, I nearly abandoned this letter at this point. What I have written already is enough to make you think I have gone mad, I know. I know, too, that George thinks so already. In a way, I am glad he does. I have not seen him in ages, and from what you say he is coming here because he believes I have taken leave of my senses.

But you--I have not the smallest wish to deceive you, but you must surely think me as mad as a hatter. What I am going to write next will put the seal on it.

Joe came for the car. I know I wrote to George about that. It interrupted me, and to tell the truth I was glad of it.

I have told you about the barefoot girl on the log who had Doris's keys. Did I say that she had gone when I straightened up?

Yes. Here it is.

When I saw she had vanished, I cut a staff for myself. The camp knife I had thought little more than an ornament proved sharp and capable. When I had hacked down a sapling and trimmed it, I walked back the way I had come, going up the slope a good deal more slowly than I had gone down it, and feeling my way through the darkest stretches with my staff. It must have taken me an hour or more to cover that half mile, if half mile it was.

At last I struck the road. I had no idea in which direction Doris's car was but turned right at a venture, which proved correct.

My passenger came up just as I was unlocking the door. At once I offered to return her keys. She said, "You will have to drive, Bax."

"Then I will. You must be terribly tired."

She said nothing.

"We should never have separated."

"We are together once more."

I slowed, and turned to look at her; she would not meet my eyes, staring straight ahead.

"Why don't we stop and get something to eat?"

"No."

"My treat, of course."

She did not reply.

I had started to say that I would take her back to her apartment, where she could have a nice bath, when I caught sight of a woman standing by the road and waving.

My passenger saw her too, and laughed.

After that, one glance was enough; and when I stopped for Doris, the seat was empty.

"Thank God, Bax! I'm so tired I could cry." Doris got in. "What have you been carrying in here?"

I said, "It will be hard to explain."

"Don't you smell it? You must."

I sniffed. If I had used my nose earlier, I would not have been deceived.

"Did I leave my keys in the car?"

I shook my head.

"I didn't think so. I took them out of the ignition and locked the car. I know I did. How did you get them?"

"A girl I met down at the river's edge gave them to me."

"Really?"

I nodded. "You probably won't believe me, but that's the truth. This is, too. She brought the smell that you complained about."

"She was in here with you."

"Yes. She was." I stopped and turned to face Doris. "You teased me to tell you about a ghost. There are worse things than ghosts, and I've been talking with one of them today."

"You're serious."

"Serious, tired, and hungry. Will the Lakeshore Inn take us, dirty, and dressed the way we are?"

"I doubt it."

"In that case, we're going to your apartment. You can clean up there and so can I. Do you have pictures of Ted? You must."

Have you read this far, Millie? You are an angel! I must say this before I close: those parts of my letter which you must think most fantastic, I have actually toned down. What I suffered was far more fantastic than I have told you.

Wilder, and much less credible.

One thing more, and I shall close. Doris showed me pictures of Ted. Several of them. He was unquestionably the man I glimpsed for a moment in the woods, the man who vanished when Lupine spoke to him.

He is, I would say, also the man I took to be Ieuan's parent.

I have told myself over and over that I must get out of this house, that I have stumbled upon a place where dreams walk by daylight and that those dreams may destroy me. But there's the money, and I have been so poor for so long.

There is a terrible fascination, too. I am a scholar or I am nothing, Millie. I knew an elderly Jewish scholar at the University of Chicago, a Dr. Kopecky. He was robbed on the street, and surrendered his wallet and his watch without a struggle; but when the gang of juveniles who had surrounded him tried to take his bag, containing one old book and his notes, he fought them all.

Perhaps you understand.

I hope you are well and feel certain you must be more beautiful than ever. For me you are an anchor of sanity in a world gone mad. Please, please write again.

Forever your friend,

Bax ;

Mr. Dunn:

My name you will have gotten from my stationery, and the skills I proffer as well. Your sister-in-law is my client. She has described your difficulties in detail, and I have warned her--as I warn you--that you stand in grave danger. Mrs. Dunn suggested I contact you psychically. I mean to act upon her suggestion, but it seems best to write you first in order that you may prepare.

From what Mrs. Dunn says, your home is a node. It may well be possessed. I am an experienced exorcist, certified by the International Occult Council, A.S.P. My fees are reasonable, and refundable in the unlikely event of client dissatisfaction. I cannot specify an exact amount without first inspecting your premises, but my fees typically
run between $500 and $5,000. Because your home is more than 100 miles distant, you would also be required to compensate me for travel expenses. (Non-refundable.)