The Visitors, page 6
“I’ll give you a shot, but I can’t serve the kid at the bar,” Mother replied. “He’ll have to take a table.”
“This,” Frobisher announced, “is young Mr. Powell. I am taking him up to his house, and I need something for the cold. Don’t give me no arguments, please.”
Mother looked at Steve. “No kidding,” he said, with interest. “What’ll you have, sonny?”
Steve put his foot on the brass rail, and his elbow on the bar. “I’ll have a 7-Up,” he said. “Straight.”
Mother reached below the bar, uncapped a bottle, and set it in front of Steve. “Well, well,” he said, as he poured Frobisher’s drink. “How do you like it up there?”
“I already ast him,” Frobisher replied. “He’s heard Walking Jenny, but that’s all.” He slapped some money on the bar and took his drink.
“Seen any blood on the walls?” asked a man down the bar.
“Shut up, Flicker,” said Mother. “You’ll get the kid all jumpy.”
“I ast him about that, too,” said Frobisher. “No blood yet.” He slid his empty shot glass forward, and Mother refilled it.
Steve, who was reveling in the attention, took a casual swallow of his drink and set the bottle down. “As a matter of fact, there has been a little blood,” he said. “But not enough to mention.”
Frobisher stared at him. “You told me you hadn’t seen none,” he said.
“I’d forgotten. It was just a little patch.”
“Did it look like it made letters?”
Steve pretended to think for a moment. “Now that you mention it, yes,” he said. “There was a kind of zigzag streak, like a Z, and then one that could have been an E or an F. It was kind of blurred.”
Frobisher gripped the bar, and his face turned the color of clay. A few stools away, a man laughed. “That wouldn’t be your name, would it, Zeke?” he said.
“Holy Jesus,” Frobisher said prayerfully. “Oh, Holy Jesus.”
“I could be wrong,” said Steve. “It was just a little bit, and it was pretty blurry.”
“I ain’t going near that house,” Frobisher whispered. “I ain’t going within three miles of it.”
“You said you were taking the kid home,” said the man. “What are you going to do—leave him walk?”
“He was set to walk anyway,” Frobisher replied. “I just made the offer because—” He stopped, and pushed his glass across to Mother.
“I was taught if a man makes a bargain he sticks to it,” said the man, grinning. “You wouldn’t want to be known as a welsher, now, would you?”
Frobisher glared at him. “You want to take him?” he asked. “My truck’s out front, and you’re welcome to it.”
“I wasn’t the one made the bargain,” the man replied. “If I’d said I would, then sure, I’d take him and glad to, but it just so happens I didn’t open my mouth. Looks like you’ve got the job.”
Frobisher turned beseechingly to Steve. “If I was to call your daddy, would he come get you?” he asked.
“He’s out,” said Steve glibly. “He had to see the doctor about his back.”
Frobisher drained his glass and gripped the bar, shivering. Then he slammed a fist down, and turned away. “All right, God damn it,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Steve followed him out and into the truck, and Frobisher started off with a lurch that was caused part by whisky and part by panic. He drove wildly out the fog-shrouded road that led to the bluff, and Steve began to get nervous. The truck’s tires skittered off the edge of the road on the curves, spraying stone and gravel like the wave from a ship, and twice oncoming cars loomed out of the fog ahead, missing collision by inches. Steve decided the joke had gone far enough.
“Look,” he said. “I think I ought to tell you, I was only kidding about that blood.”
Frobisher was quiet for a few moments, and then said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, I figured you’d been kidding me with all your stories, so I thought I’d kid you a little in return. There never was any blood on the walls.”
Frobisher said nothing, and gradually the truck slowed down. “I oughta throw you right outa the car,” he said at last. “Why? Wasn’t that fair?”
“That ain’t no subject to kid about, sonny. And don’t you never do that again. Never.”
“But weren’t you kidding me?”
“I told you! No! Now, shut up and stop talking about it!”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, and at the entrance to the driveway Frobisher stopped the truck. Steve opened his door, and hesitated. “Thank you for the ride,” he said. “And for the drink—and—I’m sorry.”
Frobisher stared stonily ahead and said nothing, and Steve got out and closed the door. The truck drove off in a flurry of gravel, and disappeared in the fog.
When Steve entered the house, his mother was in the kitchen and his father was trying to start a fireplace fire with wet wood. They were both preoccupied with what they were doing, and he was interested in what their reactions would be to his announcement. Standing in the door between the two rooms, he said, “I suppose you know this house is haunted.” Nobody said anything, and he went on, “You should have heard the stories I heard today. Old Man Twitchell killed his wife and bricked her up in the cellar, and an old whore named Walking Jenny used to—”
“Stephen, that’s enough,” said his mother. “Where did you hear this?”
“Zeke Frobisher told me. Everybody knows it.” Steve glanced to where his father was wadding newspaper under the smoking logs. “What do you think about it, Pop?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” Powell replied.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” Kathryn said. “That’s the one thing you can be sure of.”
“A guy named Art Crannish went down to the cove once,” Steve said. “Next day they found him, and the fish had eaten his face.”
“Stephen!” Kathryn exclaimed. “If you don’t mind!”
“Have you been down to the cove, Pop?” Steve asked.
“Uh—yes,” said Powell. “Once.”
“What’s it like?”
“Like—any other cove, I guess. I wouldn’t go down there again, though. The path’s not too good.”
“I’d like to see it sometime.”
“By the way,” said Kathryn, “while you’re standing there doing nothing you might straighten up your room. It’ll get your mind on pleasanter subjects.”
“What needs straightening?” said Steve. “I made my bed.”
“There are clothes all over it, and you’ve done something to the wall. I don’t know what you put on it, but it’s going to take soap and water to get it off.”
“I didn’t put anything on the wall,” said Steve. “I just hung my banner and my pictures, but I didn’t do anything else.”
“Go look and see.”
Steve went into his room, looked at the smear on the wall, and began to tremble. Oh, no, he thought. It can’t be. He looked more closely, and started to touch it, then put his hand behind him and backed away. “Hey, Pop!” he called.
Both Powell and Kathryn appeared in the door, and saw Steve, looking pale and shaken, staring at the wall. “What’s the matter?” Powell asked.
“It’s blood!” said Steve. “It means somebody’s going to be killed!”
“Oh, really,” said Kathryn. “I could kill that Zeke Frobisher.”
Powell examined the smear on the wall. “Darned if it doesn’t look like blood,” he said.
“How could it be blood?” Kathryn asked. “Be reasonable.”
“I didn’t say it was; I said it looked like it. Got a rag?” She handed him a dishrag, and he scrubbed the stain until it was almost gone. Then he looked at Steve. “What else did Frobisher tell you?” he said.
“Not much,” Steve replied hesitantly. “That was about all.”
The telephone rang, and Kathryn went to answer it. They heard her say “Yes?” and then her voice took on the shade-louder tone that goes with talking long-distance. “This is she. . . . Uncle George? How wonderful to hear from you! Where are you? . . . I see. . . . Oh, we’d love to see you! . . . Yes, plenty of room. . . . On your boat? Wait a minute.” She covered the mouthpiece and called to Powell, “It’s Uncle George. He wants to know if there’s a place here he can land his boat.”
“It depends on how big it is,” Powell replied. “But, knowing him, if there isn’t a place he’ll make one.”
“He says yes, there’s plenty of room,” Kathryn said into the phone. “There’s a cove right below us, where you can anchor. When can we expect you? . . . Oh, wonderful. We can’t wait. . . . Goodbye.” She hung up, and came back into Steve’s room. “He’s coming,” she said. “There wasn’t much I could do.”
“When does he get here?” Powell asked.
“Some time late Friday. He’s sailing up the coast, so he can’t be sure exactly.” Then she looked at Steve and said, “And if you listen to one more word Zeke Frobisher tells you, I’ll shoot you both. There’s no excuse for this.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve replied. “I guess I got kind of jumpy.”
“It’s no wonder, the stories he’s been feeding you.”
“I think I’ll go down to the Atheneum tomorrow,” said Powell. “I want to do some research.”
“About what?” Kathryn asked.
“This house. Old Man Twitchell. Whatever I can find. I have a feeling I might come up with something interesting.”
She turned away. “Well, good luck,” she said. “But if you come up with any more ghost stories, please don’t bring them back.”
SEVEN
Next day. Powell went to the Atheneum. It was deserted except for the librarian, but in spite of—or possibly because of—its emptiness Powell still felt he should lower his voice. There was something about the building that compelled him to whisper.
“That book about Ebenezer Twitchell,” he said. “May I see it?”
She smiled. “Of course,” she said, in a normal voice. “But you must understand it’s incomplete.”
“In what way?”
“It just gives the historical details. The—well, the more personal aspects of his life are omitted. And rightly, too.”
“Where could I find out about them?”
She smiled again, and indicated a chair next to her. “Sit down,” she said. “Do you have a few minutes?”
Ebenezer Twitchell ran away to sea during the War of 1812, and for the rest of his life was never very far from the water. This was partially because his father Obadiah, a harnessmaker, used to beat him with a snaffle bit every chance he got, and by the time Ebenezer was strong enough to make it an equal contest his father had died. By then it was too late for Ebenezer to do anything except be a sailor, and he almost reluctantly set about the business of making a living at sea. Near the end of each voyage he would vow never to go out again, and then a chance would come for a promotion, or a lucrative voyage, and he would sign on for one more trip. He had his second mate’s papers when he was twenty-two, and with them came the chance of becoming a master, and Ebenezer gave up even pretending not to go back to sea. If he could be a master, then he might in some way get revenge for all he had suffered at the hands of his father.
At about this time he married Felicity Mayhew, an unattractive girl of twenty-eight whose father had each year offered a larger and larger dowry in the hope of getting rid of her, but whom none of the local youths would touch with a frigate’s bowsprit. Ebenezer, however, aware that his voyages were going to become longer and longer, and the intervals ashore shorter and shorter, reasoned that he could put up with Felicity for a week or so every year, in return for what was by now not only a great deal of money but also a fine piece of seaside property, which her father had thrown in as a final raising of the ante. Furthermore, once he became master he might be able to get a whaling ship, and their voyages sometimes lasted three years. He went to Felicity’s father and announced he would like to marry her, and the old man grasped his hand in a bone-crushing grip and tearfully called him Son.
Felicity, unattractive though she was, was no fool, and she saw through Ebenezer’s offer and also saw what kind of person lay beneath the surface, and what he was likely to become. She reasoned that if she’d kept her virginity this long (although with no difficulty whatsoever) there was no point throwing it away on someone who would be gone most of the time, and would become increasingly savage in the short intervals he was home. The day of the wedding she ran away, but her father put the dogs on her, and they caught her in the swamp the other side of Cranton. That night, she locked herself in the bedroom before Ebenezer could get a foot in the door, and he, after thinking a moment, shrugged his shoulders and went into town.
Felicity was right; Ebenezer did become more savage, not only at home but also at sea, where he felt that everything and everybody were conspiring against him. When, finally, he became a full-fledged master, his reputation for harshness had spread so that it was difficult for the owner to sign on a crew. But there was no denying he made money; any ship he commanded was taut almost to the breaking point, and his cargoes were bigger and were delivered more efficiently than any others along the coast. At last he got a whaling ship, and sailed for the South Seas without saying goodbye to either Felicity or her father, who counted this among their greater blessings for that week.
His whaling career was, by some standards, short, although it was five years before he returned home. Several hundred miles east of the Solomons his ship was rammed and sunk by an enraged bull whale, and he and a few survivors drifted about in an open boat for nearly a month before they landed on an uninhabited island. When, after more than a year, they were picked up by an outgoing whaler, there were only two survivors: the cook, who had gone crazy, and Ebenezer.
When he got back Felicity’s father had died, allegedly from too prolonged exposure to his daughter, and although this didn’t affect Ebenezer much he was dismayed to find he was no longer in demand as a ship’s captain. The feeling was his luck had run out; that his five years in the Pacific had taken the edge off his efficiency, and it wouldn’t be worth the trouble necessary to scour up a crew who would sail with him. He tried three owners and got the same reply from them all, so he said the hell with it, and retired. He built a house on the property that had come with Felicity’s dowry, and told her she could stay where she was or move in with him; it was all the same to him. For some reason never clearly understood, Felicity sold her father’s house and moved in with Ebenezer, possibly out of nothing more than rank curiosity. But moving in meant into the house only; she kept herself locked in her own bedroom at night, and this was perfectly splendid as far as Ebenezer was concerned.
Many years before, on one of his periodic jaunts into town, he had seen a plump blonde circling the village green. Plump blondes were rare locally, and Ebenezer, invigorated by a couple of hours at the tavern, decided to investigate. He found out what he wanted to know almost immediately, and from then on he looked her up whenever he was in port. Looking her up was easy; the only difficulty was that she had no permanent lodgings, and taking her back to the house where Felicity and her father were asleep was obviously out of the question. This made their rendezvous something of a fair-weather proposition; on rainy nights, or when there was too much snow on the ground, Ebenezer would stay in the tavern and wish he were back at sea.
One night after his retirement, he lay in his solo bed and reflected that, although his life had been full in some respects, it had been miserably wanting in his relations with women. This naturally reminded him of the plump blonde, whose name was Jane, or Jenny, and he decided to look around and see if she was still in the neighborhood. He was afraid that by this time she might be a bit long in the tooth, but in view of his other opportunities it certainly wouldn’t do any harm to look. On this note he went to sleep, and dreamed that he found Jenny, and she had turned into a South Sea Islander.
He did indeed find her, late in the afternoon, and he was surprised to see that the years had treated her kindly. Since hers was basically an outdoor existence, she had developed more stamina than her housebound sisters; her complexion was good, she seemed fit and strong, and she recognized him instantly.
“Well!” she said. “I thought you’d never get back. Where’ve you been?”
“Never mind that,” said Ebenezer. “Where can we go?”
She looked at him curiously. “You mean you still don’t have a house of your own?”
“I have a house of my own, but—” He stopped and thought. There was a maid’s room downstairs that was empty at the moment because of the sudden departure of the maid, and Felicity was usually asleep in her own locked room by nine-thirty. “Could you be there at four bells?” he asked.
Jenny’s eyes narrowed. “Is this a church?”
“Four bells! The time! Ten o’clock!”
“You don’t need to shout. I can understand when you speak English. Yes, I suppose I could make it by then, if I’m in the vicinity.”
“See that you are.”
Jenny pouted. “I’m not used to being ordered around,” she said. “I’ll be there if I’m not otherwise occupied.”
At ten-thirty, the commotion in the maid’s room was such that neither Jenny nor Ebenezer heard Felicity descend the stairs, cross the kitchen, and fling open the door. Then she screamed, and they hurled themselves into opposite corners of the room. She started after Jenny, but one kick from Jenny’s powerful leg sent her spinning against the wall, and she retreated into the kitchen and returned with a cleaver. This time she went for Ebenezer, and all the hatred that had built up over twenty-five years went into the blow she aimed at his head. But Ebenezer had had some experience with mutinous crews, and he parried Felicity’s blow, wrenched the cleaver from her hand, and fetched her a slice on the side of her head that opened her from jawbone to temple and spattered the wall with blood. She sank into an untidy heap on the floor.
