The Brownstone, page 23
She turned left and walked toward the brownstone. The seer. Why had she disconnected her telephone? Chandal wished now that Sheila had given her the number of the other people. They will help you if the woman doesn’t, Sheila had said. But, maybe Sheila shouldn’t have given her any number at all.
Chandal could still see the expression on Sheila’s face when she had left for lunch that day. Tense. Nervous. She’d had nothing to be nervous about, had she? Unless—unless she knew she was in danger.
Chandal gazed at the wrinkled face, the familiar features of the mailman who was just dropping a letter into the mail slot. She stopped at the foot of the steps and waited for him to finish.
“Morning.” He tipped his cap.
“Good morning,” Chandal said, and felt better. Somehow, when he had said “Morning” there was a connection with reality, some part of reality that was not hostile, that was plain and simple and needed no explanation.
Chandal turned, watched the melting snow run down the gutters into the sewer below. Listened to the trickling of water, dropping down into the bowels of the city. There was the sound of cars, people—all of it real, unhurried, undisturbed.
Chandal was sure Sheila had mentioned other people. Were there actually people who would be able to help her?
Already she was beginning to get tired again. Something was going terribly wrong, something inside of her. A loss of vitality—no, more than that. She was letting go of everything. In some way, she had to find new strength. To gather herself together. Never in her life had she let herself look so—
“Watch out!” screamed a man’s voice, and instinctively she jumped back. Leaped away from the brownstone, sure in the instant of danger that whatever was threatening her would have emanated from that building. And because she was young and her instincts were good, the empty clay flowerpot missed her, missed her by inches as it hurtled downward and smashed to bits on the sidewalk. The mailman, ashen and wobbling on his legs, had made his way down the steps, his chest heaving in his agitation. They looked at each other, embarrassed suddenly at their mutual recognition of their own mortality.
“I don’t know what made me look up,” muttered the mailman, shaking his head.
“You—you saved me. Saved my life.”
“I don’t know what made me look up,” he repeated helplessly. He pointed up. “Hey, listen, tell those people...”
“I will,” she said. “I’ll tell them.” She turned her gaze upward. A hand was just closing the third-story window. Had that flowerpot really fallen off the ledge? It had come hurtling down so fast. Of course, it had been an accident. Almost a deadly accident. She thanked the man, moved up onto the stoop, fished for the key in her purse, and let herself in. She remained motionless, staring at the second-floor landing. She had to speak with the two women—now! More angry than frightened, she climbed the stairs and knocked on their door.
“Just a minute,” called a faint voice, and there was the sound of something heavy being moved across the floor and the sound of a door opening and closing. Chandal let her fingers wander over the rich design of the doorframe. She recognized the artwork as good. No, better than good. She looked closer. All kinds of naked, plump figures—Renaissance. And animals. No, she thought. Just one animal, carved again and again. What—?
The door opened slowly, only a few inches at first; then Chandal saw that it was Elizabeth. Dressed in dusting cap and apron, she appeared to be cleaning the silver. With surprising pleasantness, she invited Chandal inside. They entered an intimate but comfortable living room, where Elizabeth invited her to sit down. “My, you do look well.” Chandal knew that she was lying. “How do you feel?” Elizabeth asked.
“Fine. And you?”
“I’m an old woman. Never ask an old woman how she feels; she’s liable to tell you. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Just now, when I—”
Suddenly the telephone rang in another room. Excusing herself, Elizabeth put down her cleaning cloth, hurriedly took off her cap and apron, and left the room, leaving the door open.
Chandal couldn’t hear the conversation, but she did hear Elizabeth talking excitedly to someone on the other end. Chandal seized the opportunity to study the room carefully, not knowing exactly what she was looking for. There was a table with sewing upon it, another small table with books. All the furniture in the room was good and solid. There was little ornamentation—nothing more.
“Oh, dear—I am sorry. Now, where were we?” Elizabeth stood in the doorway and smiled.
Reluctantly, Chandal gave up her search. “I was saying that one of your flowerpots on the third floor just fell and nearly hit me!” Chandal was surprised to see how angry she still was.
“Oh, my. I’ve told Magdalen many times that we should have them removed. They’re so heavy, you know. Perhaps Justin—”
“Someone was up there by the window.” Chandal watched as Elizabeth’s face hardened and became grim, her lips held very tightly together, as though she were forcing herself not to utter a word. “Did you hear me? I said there was someone at the third-floor window just now!”
“But who could it be, I wonder?”
“Magdalen—is she home?”
“No.” Elizabeth turned away abruptly and, without a word, crossed to the small table and sat.
“Does anyone else live with you?”
Elizabeth’s face brightened and she spoke in a changed voice. “Oh, yes. Murray. Murray has been with us most of our lives.”
“Is he here now?”
“Oh, yes.” She made a little gesture with her head toward the door.
“May I—”
Elizabeth rose, walked to the door, opened it, and went out. She paid no attention to Chandal, who was left standing at the table, her sentence unfinished.
After a moment, Chandal heard whispering from the next room. Then a scraping, clawing noise. Then she heard a door shut and there was complete silence. Only when a cry came from the next room, a cry like that of a wounded animal, half-moan and half-bleat, did Chandal go to see what the woman was up to.
Staring into the next room, Chandal saw Elizabeth standing by a cage which contained a huge parrot resting comfortably on one leg. Elizabeth smiled. “This is Murray. Murray, say hello to the nice young lady.” The parrot cried out on cue. “You see, he is very intelligent.”
Chandal wasted no time in eyeing the new room. It was some sort of reference library with medical books piled everywhere.
Elizabeth stood at a bookshelf near the corner of the room, her back to Murray, and watched Chandal closely. “You are wondering what all this is, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I was.” Chandal felt embarrassed that the old woman could read her thoughts so clearly.
“Magdalen’s husband used to be a doctor of sorts. This was his room. Actually, it was mine, and that’s when all the trouble started.”
“Husband? But I thought neither of you had ever been married.”
“Oh, no. Magdalen was married. To the young Dr. Steven M. Rock. Oh, a fine doctor’s wife she made!”
“And he lived here?”
“We all did. For a while. Oh, yes—there’s a history to be told in this house. Actually, they lived on the first floor, where you live now. I lived here on the second floor by myself. Then he needed more room for his books, so he brought them up here. We never did get along.” She turned and placed the cover over her bird. “Say good-bye, Murray.”
The bird cried out good-bye.
Elizabeth smiled. “Intelligent bird, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. Yes.” Chandal’s mind was racing. She wanted to ask a hundred questions, but knew that the old woman would only tell her what she wanted her to know, and nothing more.
“I never did tell you how sorry we were that you lost your son like that.”
Their eyes met. Son? thought Chandal and moved aside as Elizabeth walked from the room.
“Please, I—” Chandal followed her. “How did you know that I was to have a son?”
Elizabeth went back into the living room and began to polish the candlesticks. She worked without looking at Chandal. “Magdalen said it was to be a boy. She knows these things.”
Chandal continued to question her about Magdalen’s husband. Elizabeth had no idea how much time had passed since he’d first stepped foot into the “ice house.” She referred to the brownstone as the “ice house” because as a child, she always remembered being cold. When asked about her mother and father, Elizabeth vaguely remembered that Magdalen had hated her mother and loved her father. As for herself, she couldn’t recall how she felt about them.
“Why did Magdalen hate your mother?” asked Chandal.
“Because she refused to let her marry the young doctor. But then she died and they were married the day after the funeral.” She held up the highly polished candlesticks. “Aren’t they pretty?”
“Yes.” Chandal paused for a moment, then asked, “Down in the basement, there are mannequins. What are they used for?”
Elizabeth eyed her cautiously. “When the young doctor died, Magdalen and I decided to become dressmakers. It was easy enough, and we both like pretty clothes.”
“What did Magdalen’s husband die of?”
“Cancer,” said Elizabeth simply. “Just like that. Such a young man, only thirty-three. He died upstairs in his bed on St. Valentine’s Day.”
“Upstairs? I thought—”
“When he became sick, he wanted to be closer to his laboratory. His work. The stairs, you know. He couldn’t climb them. So they moved their belongings upstairs to the third floor and slept in Magdalen’s old bedroom—hers as a little girl. It was the winter of 1930. They were married only a year when he died. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please.” Chandal needed more time to sort out the details.
“Sit down, please. I’ll be right back.” Smiling, she left the room. Chandal listened to the hollow footsteps padding their way to the rear of the apartment.
Mechanically, she unbuttoned her coat. Chandal was momentarily frustrated. Her eyes regained their purpose when she noticed the large black book resting on the rosewood sideboard cabinet. There were papers protruding out from between the pages; an ink pen lay beside the book, and a bottle of ink sat next to the pen. The cap was off the pen, the top off the bottle. Someone had recently been working on making notes, she thought.
She heard the tea cups rattling in the kitchen. There was still time. She moved next to the rosewood sideboard. “The Book of Ahriman” she muttered aloud to herself, staring down at the gold Gothic lettering.
She quickly poked her fingers into the pages and cracked the book open. Something substantial, more powerful than her, took hold as she read silently:
Then Ahriman spoke of Joy and Sorrow.
And He said:
1. And none, save only thee who places Me within thyself, will know true Joy.
2. Only then will ye know what I am, and what great Joy may be.
3. Go forth, in My glory, with them that strive with Me; fight against them that fight against Me.
4. Let them be crushed and put under that seek to destroy My soul; let them be turned away and brought to confusion that condemn My soul.
5. Let their way be dark; and let thy will and spirit persecute them.
6. Joy is greater than Sorrow when ye embrace the waiting arms of Ahriman.
7. Let all...
“What are you doing?” Elizabeth’s voice rang sharply behind her.
“What?” Chandal spun around and let the book fall closed.
“You mustn’t pry, my dear. It isn’t polite.”
Under Elizabeth’s calm voice, Chandal could detect a new hardness. There was a tenseness in all her smallest movements. She was, quite suddenly, not a sweet and mild old lady, but a protectress of a secret and an enemy.
Chandal watched as Elizabeth clutched her shawl more tightly around her. “The tea is ready. Shall we go into the kitchen?” She turned to leave the room.
“Elizabeth, I would like to see the rest of the brownstone. The third floor—I’d like to see it.”
Elizabeth turned to Chandal, her face frightened. “No! No one goes up there anymore. It’s been locked for years.”
“That’s not true. I told you that I just saw someone up there when I first entered the building.”
“That’s impossible.”
“How do you know unless we check?”
“But there’s no light up there.”
“We’ll use candles.”
Elizabeth saw that Chandal was determined. She felt uneasy at the idea, but decided to let the girl have her way. After all, what was there to hide? “Magdalen will be angry,” she said, weakening in her position.
“You said she wasn’t home.”
A tiny bead of sweat ran down Elizabeth’s face and as she raised her hand upward, it was trembling. She took hold of the candlesticks and gave one to Chandal. Together, they lit the candles and headed for the third floor.
Chandal watched from below as Elizabeth climbed up the stairs, disappeared around one winding corner, then appeared again out of the shadows.
“It’s all right. I’ve unlocked it. You may come up.”
The first room Chandal entered was bare. A few pegs hung on the wall—and a table with a water jug and a basin on it stood off to the right.
Elizabeth put her arm around Chandal and drew her close. Together they stood at the doorway and eyed the vacant room. Elizabeth’s face was hot and wet. “Through there,” Elizabeth said, pointing at the curtain at the end of a long passageway.
They reached a door at the end of the hall. Elizabeth opened it and Chandal, with her candle, scuttled forward into the darkness.
They walked to the center of the room where Elizabeth stopped beside a huge four-poster bed. She leaned down to look at the decaying mattress. Then she straightened up with a little shudder. “This is where he died,” she whispered.
The two women went through the door into the darkness of the adjoining room. Chandal was startled to see that around the walls were anatomical specimens mounted and labeled. There were also specimens in glass cases and a large number of packing crates, yet unopened. On the floor were bones, the skeletons of dead animals, curiosities, and brains in jars.
“This is where he conducted his work.” Elizabeth placed her candlestick down on a large table, containing an array of shiny instruments: knives, long sharp steel tools, pincers, and a saw.
“Where is the room that overlooks the front of the building?” asked Chandal, repulsed by the room that she was now in.
The old woman nodded and picked up her candlestick. She led Chandal down the hallway toward the main door, which she opened, allowing Chandal to enter first.
Immediately Chandal felt damp and cold. Her candlestick flickered and almost went out. She paused for a moment, allowing the flame to restore itself. Next, she held the candlestick high in the air. She could see that she had entered into a snug room not big enough for more than four people. Its pale green walls had burst their fragile exterior paint and had erupted into sinister-looking blisters that had begun to peel badly and drop onto the floor. The tiny space was almost completely swallowed up by the badly faded Victorian couch that sat in the center of the room. Chandal’s nostrils pricked with distaste, the rotten odor of decay permeating the air.
Chandal’s attention moved to the red brick fireplace, ashes piled about its copper base. On its mantel sat a shiny ebony clock. The time had stopped at nine minutes past twelve. To the left of the clock sat a silver picture frame.
Chandal picked up the frame—stared. It was the young man. The young man whom she had seen on so many occasions wandering about the house.
The old woman moved up behind her, holding up her candlestick for more light. “That’s the young doctor when they were first married.”
“Dead,” muttered Chandal to herself. “But I—I’ve seen him—”
Elizabeth’s shoulders shook. She was laughing soundlessly.
Chandal grasped for control, for an image she could understand. No. There was something here beyond understanding—at least, beyond anything she wanted to understand. Another sensation gripped her. Something she should have recognized long ago. She stared closer at the picture, the image searing her consciousness. Oh, God! The young man looked like Justin. Justin was heavier and his mustache wasn’t as large, but, nevertheless, they looked alike. She stiffened and felt a surge of fear shoot through her body. She could feel the old woman pressing in on top of her, her warm breath on the back of her neck.
“Do you like him?” the old woman asked.
“The window! I want to see the window!” Chandal screamed, slamming the picture down on the mantel. Violently, she moved around the room. Seeing the drapes that were drawn, she threw them open. She stopped at the cobwebbed window and looked out.
“You see, it’s the way I said it would be. The window hasn’t been opened for years and there is no one up here.” Elizabeth remained by the mantel as Chandal tried to open the window. It would not budge.
Suddenly there was a pattering of footsteps in the darkness. Elizabeth looked around quickly, then whispered, “Someone is coming!”
The door was flung open and a sudden fire ignited in the fireplace. Elizabeth and Chandal stood together while a little light, as if from one candle, fell on their faces. From beyond the door came Magdalen’s scream. “What are you doing here?”
Elizabeth quickly sat near the chaise longue and pretended to polish her nails. Magdalen moved into the room and paced back and forth near the window. She looked exactly as she had appeared in Chandal’s dream: hair drawn back over her ears, a necklace, her face made up, a tailored skirt and blouse of beige, and on her finger—two rings!
“Sit down, please,” Magdalen ordered. She spoke slowly, deliberately, like a woman with a passionate temper who was afraid to lose control of it. “I’m afraid that I must be frank with you. I’m not one of those women who pretend.”
