The Visitors, page 19
Kathryn riffled through the clippings and was about to hand them back when an idea occurred to her. “Wait here a minute,” she said. “I’ll talk to my husband.” She gave him the envelope and went into the house, and quietly opened the door to Steve’s room. Being careful not to wake Uncle George, she shook Powell’s shoulder and whispered, “Steven, wake up!”
Powell opened one red eye, and looked at her. “Hmf?” he said. “What time is it?”
“Wake up!” said Kathryn. “The man is here to lay the ghosts!”
Powell opened both eyes and struggled to a sitting position, and Uncle George groaned. Powell looked at him without recognition, then got to his feet and staggered into the kitchen. “What did you say?” he asked hoarsely.
“I said the man is here to lay the ghosts,” Kathryn repeated as she closed the door. “He’s an exorcist. He’s right outside.”
Powell went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face, then combed his fingers through his hair. He ran his tongue around his mouth and tried to swallow, but the effort bogged down about halfway through, and he gave it up. “Who sent him?” he asked.
“He won’t say. But he says we’ve got three ghosts, and that he can get rid of them—he’s got clippings to prove it.”
“He’s right about the first part,” said Powell. Then he looked at her sharply, and said, “You’re not kidding me, are you?”
“Of course not! Come outside if you don’t believe me.”
“Let me get a beer first.” He reached in the refrigerator, opened a can of beer, and followed her out to the driveway, where Dr. Hector O’Connor was waiting, Dr. O’Connor raised his hat, and Powell nodded.
“Would you tell my husband what you told me?” Kathryn asked, and Dr. O’Connor repeated his spiel, producing the card and envelope as evidence.
“Well, I don’t know what we can lose,” Powell said at last. “How much is this nominal fee?”
“I usually ask twenty-five dollars, but seeing as how you have three ghosts I’m afraid it should be a wee bit higher. Should we say fifty for the three?”
Powell handed the papers back. “No,” he said. “Too much.”
“If he gets rid of them, wouldn’t it be worth it?” Kathryn asked, and Powell looked at her with interest.
“Since when have you believed in them?” he said.
“Never mind. Wouldn’t it be worth it?”
“No.” He couldn’t understand Kathryn’s position, and he suspected a trick. Was she just putting this on for his benefit, or what? Until he knew, he was reluctant to pay a lot of money. “Thirty for the three,” he said. “And not a nickel more.”
Dr. O’Connor sighed. “All right,” he said. “But I’m losing money.”
“So am I,” replied Powell, “until I see if it really works.”
Dr. O’Connor drew himself up and his blue eyes snapped. “I never fail,” he said. “Ever.”
“O.K. Then go to it.”
Dr. O’Connor went to his car and opened a leather bag, out of which he took a black robe and a stole with various designs embroidered on it. He put on the robe and the stole, then from the bag produced three sections of a pole, which he fitted together like a fishing rod, and at the tip end was a gold cross. Then, with the pole in one hand and a prayerbook in the other, he said, “Ready on. Where are these ghosts most often seen?”
“All through the house,” Powell replied. “From the cupola down to the cellar.”
Dr. O’Connor nodded resignedly, and followed them into the house. As they passed through the living room, he said, “I can see this would be a fine place for them.”
“Oddly enough,” replied Powell, “it’s the only room in which they haven’t been seen.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “There have been some poltergeists, though.”
Dr. O’Connor stopped. “Poltergeists weren’t in the deal,” he said. “I’m not going to be after exorcizing three ghosts and a poltergeist, all for thirty dollars.”
“Never mind the poltergeist,” said Powell. “I rather like him.”
They went up to the cupola, where the sash to Uncle George’s dressing gown still lay on the overturned chair. Powell retrieved it and glanced at Kathryn, and it seemed to him that she was paler than usual. There are a few things we’re going to have to clear up later, he thought. There’s a lot going on here I don’t understand.
“Now, then,” said Dr. O’Connor. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to work alone. If you’d be so kind as to wait for me downstairs, you can show me where the cellar is after I’ve been through the other rooms. Will that be satisfactory?”
“Perfectly,” said Powell, and he and Kathryn descended the stairs. As they went, they heard Dr. O’Connor muttering: “I adjure thee, O serpent of old, by the Judge of the living and the dead; by the Creator of the world who hath power to cast into hell, that thou depart forthwith from this house. He that commands thee, accursed demon, is He that commanded the winds, and the sea, and the storm. . . .”
“He seems to know the routine, all right,” said Powell, as they went into the kitchen. “That much you’ve got to say for him.”
“I think he’s going to do it,” said Kathryn. “I have a feeling he’s going to succeed.”
“Is it all right to ask when you started believing?” Powell said. “Last time I heard, you thought this was all nonsense.”
Kathryn hesitated. “I went to the Atheneum today,” she said.
“Why?”
“Well—for a number of reasons. I met your friend the librarian, and—and I must say she’s quite impressive.”
“You mean she convinced you?”
“Not exactly, but—well, wouldn’t it be worthwhile if this man could get rid of the ghosts?”
“You mean my ghosts?”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“Yes, it would be great. Where did you get him?”
“I told you; he just appeared. I had nothing to do with it.”
Powell thought for a moment. It nettled him to be condescended to, and he had no real faith in Dr. O’Connor, but there was no denying it would be a good thing if the manifestations were stopped. “Well, O.K.,” he said at last. “We’ll see what happens.”
“Now I’d like to ask you something,” Kathryn said. “What happened to Uncle George?”
“Just what I told you. He says he went to sleep, and dreamed of an old man in a sailor’s costume, and woke up hanging from the rafter. That’s where I found him, and I’m inclined to believe him.”
“He must be losing his mind. Could the boat have upset him that much?”
Powell shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “All I know is I’ve got a spun-glass hangover as a result.”
She smiled. “Two less likely drinking companions I can’t imagine,” she said. “But I must say you seemed to be enjoying yourselves.”
“Transitory pleasure,” said Powell sourly. “I’m paying for it now.”
They heard Dr. O’Connor come down the stairs, still chanting, and go through the living room and library; then, as he got closer, they could hear his words: “He that commands thee is He that ordered thee to be hurled down from the heights of heaven into the lower parts of the earth. He that commands thee is He that bade thee depart from him. Hearken, then, Satan, and fear. Get thee gone, vanquished and cowed, when thou art bidden in the name of—” He came into the kitchen and started into Steve’s room, just as Uncle George opened the door from the inside and appeared, gaunt and disheveled and in an ugly mood. Dr. O’Connor gave a little shriek and jumped back, and just missed spearing Uncle George with the cross on the pole.
“What the hell’s going on here?” demanded Uncle George.
“We’re exorcizing the ghosts,” said Powell. “Stand aside, and let the gentleman pass.”
“First time I ever see a man go after ghosts with a pole,” said Uncle George. “What does he do—skewer ’em as he runs along?”
“Please,” said Dr. O’Connor. “I can’t concentrate if people are talking.”
Uncle George stood by, glowering, while Dr. O’Connor repeated his chant in Steve’s room, and then Powell unbolted the cellar door and opened it, and Dr. O’Connor went down and out of sight. This will be the test, Powell thought. If anything’s going to happen, it’s going to happen now. But all they heard was the muffled chant, and then Dr. O’Connor reappeared and gave a long sigh.
“That does it,” he said. “They’re all gone.” He took off his gown, and began to dismember the pole.
“Just a second,” Powell said. “There’s one more place.”
Dr. O’Connor looked up in surprise. “Where?” he said. “I covered every room in the house.”
“This is a sort of adjunct to the house,” said Powell. “It’s a tunnel that leads to the house.”
Dr. O’Connor shook his head. “That’s not in the deal,” he said. “Outbuildings and auxiliary entrances are another matter.”
“For an extra five?”
“Ah, then. That will make it thirty-five dollars, and if you’ll be so good as to pay me now, I’ll do the tunnel and be on my way.” He regirded himself while Powell and Kathryn got together the money, and then he put the bills in his pocket and rubbed his hands. “Now,” he said. “Off to the tunnel.”
“You people can clown around all you want,” said Uncle George. “I’m going back to bed.”
“If you’ll wait till we get back I’ll make you something to eat,” said Kathryn. “You must be starved.”
Uncle George sat down. “That’s right,” he said. “We didn’t eat, did we?”
“We’ll just be a couple of minutes,” Kathryn said, as she and Powell and Dr. O’Connor went out the back door. Powell led the way to the edge of the cove, and pointed out the path.
“You go down there,” he said. “And right at the bottom you’ll find a cleft in the rock. That’s the passage that leads to the house, and I think you’ll find it needs your attention.”
Kathryn waited until Dr. O’Connor had started down, and then she said. “I went in there this morning. There’s nothing there.”
Powell stared at her in disbelief. “You did?” he said. “Why?”
“I met that young Dorple boy at the market, and he said you wanted him to tell me what happened to him. He did—although I must say he wasn’t very coherent—so I decided to investigate. I went in as far as there was light, but nothing happened.”
“Don’t ever do that again,” Powell said earnestly. “I want you to promise me—never!”
Kathryn shrugged. “I see no reason to,” she said. “It wasn’t particularly attractive.”
“Nevertheless, will you promise me?”
“Of course, but why?”
Before Powell could answer, there came a series of shrieks and cries that echoed in the tunnel below; they became louder, and then Dr. O’Connor burst out into the daylight. He was wild-eyed and sobbing; his face was a mass of blood, and saliva frothed at his lips. He scrambled up the path, his tattered gown fluttering about him, and ran howling up the lawn to the driveway, where his car was parked. He started it, turned around in a spray of gravel, and roared off down the road and out of sight.
When Powell could speak, he looked at Kathryn, who was pale gray and clutching his arm tightly. “Now do you see what I mean?” he said.
It was several moments before she answered. “There’s nothing down there,” she said. “I was there this morning.” She let go his arm, and started for the path.
“Where are you going?” Powell asked.
“I’m going down and look.”
“You are not!” He ran after her and grabbed her around the waist. She tried to wrench free.
“Let me go!” she cried. “I’ve got to go down there!”
“Are you crazy?”
“There’s nothing there! I know it!”
“Then stay here! For Christ’s sake, stay here!”
“I have to prove it! I have to prove there’s nothing there!”
She almost broke free, but Powell got one foot in front of hers and tripped her, and they both fell to the ground. His back stabbed him, but he held her in a wrestler’s grip and talked into her ear. “Listen to me,” he said. “Listen to me carefully. There is something there. I’ve felt it, and Fess Dorple’s felt it, and God knows Dr. O’Connor felt it, and if you go down there you may very well end the way he did. I don’t ask you to believe it; I just ask you to please, please remember your promise, and don’t go down there. I love you, and I don’t want you to end up a sobbing idiot. Remember—I’m asking this because I love you.”
Slowly she relaxed, and after a few minutes he let go of his hold and helped her to her feet. By now his back was knotted with pain, and he stood up with difficulty. Kathryn was quiet, and her eyes seemed out of focus, but as Powell started to walk she noticed the way he held himself, and her eyes snapped into focus and she looked at him. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I pulled my back this morning. It’s O.K.”
“It doesn’t look it. Do you want my arm?”
“No, thanks.”
They walked slowly, and as they neared the house she said, “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” he said. “Just remember your promise.”
She said nothing, and they went into the kitchen, where Uncle George was sitting with a can of beer. “It took you long enough,” he said. “What happened?”
“Dr. O’Connor ran into some trouble,” Powell replied. “I don’t think he’ll be back.”
“Your mistake was to pay him first,” said Uncle George. “Never give a man a nickel until he’s finished the job.”
NINETEEN
Steve’s birthday was a signally nonfestive affair. Powell had been put to bed for a week because of his back; Uncle George revealed an unexpected leaning toward dipsomania, and spent most of the time with a glass in his hand humming Spanish-American War tunes; and Kathryn, preoccupied with the general housework as well as the preparations for her own party, had little or no time to think of Steve. Then suddenly, the day before his birthday, she realized she had nothing for him, and went into town in a state of frenzy.
The first place she went was a sporting-goods store, and as she looked at the guns, fishing equipment, and skin-diving gear she realized she had no idea what Steve liked. She could always buy him records for his phonograph, but she wasn’t sure what kind of records; those he played were the cacophonous sort that all sounded the same to her, and to get him the wrong ones would be worse than none at all. She thought back with nostalgia to the days when he was younger, and his toys were easy to buy and always appreciated. But she couldn’t buy him building blocks or fire engines or airplanes now, any more than she could buy him an adult present like a tie or a sweater; he was in the in-between age where his needs and desires were his own personal secret, and no gift counselor could help her discover them. She gazed dismally at the assorted sporting goods, all of which might as well have been equipment for a nuclear physics lab as far as she was concerned, and she wished that Powell was with her. He still had enough boy in him to buy for himself and come up with something Steve liked; the air pistol had been his idea last year, and although Steve never used it now, it had been a great success when it was first opened, which was about all you could hope for in any present. A brisk clerk came up and asked if he could help her.
“I’m looking for something for a sixteen-year-old boy,” she said without conviction.
“Yes, Ma’m,” said the clerk. “In what line?”
“That’s the trouble,” she replied. “I don’t know.”
“Does he like scuba diving? That’s very popular now.”
“No,” she said, thinking of the cove. “Nothing like that.”
“Baseball, perhaps?” She shook her head. “Hunting?” No. “Archery is very popular with the younger group.” She hesitated, then thought of arrows flying through the windows, and shook her head. “An air gun?” He has one. “Water skiing?” No. “How about croquet? The adults can use that, too.” Definitely not. “A football? It’s getting near fall, you know.” She pictured Steve playing alone with a football, and almost wept. The clerk’s earlier confidence faded, and he began to catch her depression. “What do his friends do?” he asked. “That might give us a clue.”
“He doesn’t have any friends,” she said miserably. “I mean, not here. He does in the winter, but I don’t know what they do.”
The clerk looked as though he were going to burst into tears. “There’s got to be something,” he said hoarsely. “How about surfcasting? That’s something he can do alone.”
Kathryn had a faint spark of hope. “Maybe that’s it,” she said. “What does he need?”
The clerk hesitated. “That depends,” he said. “He can either get a spinning rod or a regular surf rod, and then”—he coughed slightly—“there are any number of different reels. It all depends on how much you want to—uh—invest.”
“Are they expensive?”
“You can get a very good, serviceable reel for twenty dollars. Then the rod would be another—oh—thirty, and then there’s the extra equipment, like the line, the leaders, the drails, the harness, and so on. The whole thing would run you maybe sixty, seventy dollars—not including the boots, of course. That’s just the good, basic material. Naturally, you could spend twice that and more, if you want the best.”
“Oh,” said Kathryn. “I can’t spend anywhere near that.”
The clerk’s shoulders sagged, and he cleared his throat. “Of course, we have regular fishing rods for much less,” he said. “They’re not for surfcasting, but they’re perfectly good for pond fishing. You can get a nice, light rod for six-fifty.”
