The Sorcerer's House (12 page)

"I do understand. But you were in the house twice. Do you have floor plans?"

"No. I had a survey, showing the property lines. I gave that to you with the deed. Nothing else."

"Did you go into the cellar?"

"I don't believe I did."

"What about the attic?"

"I--this is embarrassing, Mr. Dunn. I meant to. I intended to and I tried to. But I couldn't find a way to get up there. I--I wanted to see if the roof was leaking. There had been some wind damage, shingles blown off, you know. Eventually I had the roof repaired without ever going up there. The roofers didn't need to get inside. They hardly ever do."

"I've found two ways," I told her. "One is a stair off the butler's pantry. It's--"

"Is there a butler's pantry?" Martha looked a trifle shocked.

"That's what I call it. Quite possibly you would call it something else. It's a smallish room between the dining room and the kitchen."

It was about then, George, that we heard the first siren. There was a screech of brakes, and the spinning red light of a police car filled Martha's picture window with a fitful glare. Another siren wailed in the distance.

Martha hurried outside, doubtless fearing that one of the neighboring houses was on fire. After putting several small pieces of meat into my pockets and sternly ordering myself to fall flat in the event of shooting, I followed her.

For my peace of mind, it proved a grave error; I saw the victim, and wish I had not. That she was dead was beyond question: a leg had been torn away, and there was a great deal of blood. I shall leave it at that.

Martha became hysterical. I omit those details also; no doubt you have had some experience of hysteria. In the end, she was undressed by a female officer who put her to bed after administering a sedative she found in Martha's medicine cabinet.

After quizzing me about my bruises, she said, "Do you have a car, sir?"

I explained that Martha had picked me up at my home.

"Is it far?"

"Not really. Four or five miles, I suppose. Thirteen hundred River-path Road?"

"That's more like seven. Want a ride home?"

"Yes, indeed. It's very kind of you."

In her squad car, I inquired about the dead woman, saying that she must surely have been a friend of Martha's.

"A neighbor, but they may have been friends, too. You new in town, sir?"

"I came in January, so I'm still quite new. I--well, I've spent most of my life in cities, I'm afraid. After a while, one becomes dreadfully tired of cities."

"I wouldn't know. What do you do, sir?"

"Right now? Look for a job." I outlined my degrees. "There is never much demand for scholars, I'm afraid."

"Ever tried acting?"

I could only stare.

"I'm not joking. You'd be good at it. You'll be nice looking when your face heals, and you said thirteen hundred Riverpath like I'd say eight eleven Walnut Street. That's the Black House, and you must know it."

"I did. Martha told me, but I thought you might never have heard of it."

"All us cops know about the Black House."

"I see . . ."

"It used to be for rent, years and years ago. This is what I've heard. I wasn't a cop then."

"Obviously not."

"Thanks. People would rent it and find bodies. Ever found one?"

I shook my head.

"They'd call the cops, but when we got there the body'd be gone. No body anywhere, and no blood. They'd been hung, mostly. Some had been stabbed, but mostly it was hanging."

"Neater, I suppose."

"Right. Then the same renters would find another one, and when it disappeared, too, they'd move out."

"One can hardly blame them."

"I wouldn't." She smiled at me, suddenly pert and pretty. "You're renting it from Mrs. Murrey?"

"No, I own it."

"Wow."

She was quiet after that until we reached the house. Then she said, "You left some lights on."

"The electric company must have restored power to the house," I said. "It was still off when I left."

"Good news then." She offered her hand. "I'm Kate Finn."

I was greatly tempted to say, "Of eight eleven Walnut Street," but naturally I introduced myself instead, though I had given her my name and telephone number earlier.

As soon as she pulled away, the lights in my house went out. All of them. I have rarely been tempted to curse, but at that moment it would have been an enormous relief.

Should I tell you this? I will be handing you a weapon, but then you have a great many already. Will I ever feel the sting of this one? I doubt it. If I were wise--but we both know that I am not. To this point I have told you everything of moment, and I hate to spoil my record.

Very well.

George, I stumbled over a human leg in the dark. It was on my porch, two steps in front of the door.

At first I did not know what it was. I tried to kick it away, and found it softer than I had expected and heavy. Stepping over it, I went inside and got my flashlight. The leg was a woman's, or so I would judge. All clothing was gone and there was a spattering of blood, but it appeared hairless.

Here, I admit, I acted exactly as you would have in my place. I (or so I would have predicted) would have called the police--who would have found me penniless, living in a house without furniture. Who would soon have discovered that I had pawned an antique gold coin that very day, even if I had hidden the other two. Who would have known as a matter of course that I had been very near the scene of the woman's death.

For those reasons and more, I carried that leg down to the river, threw it into the water, and returned to the house, terrified. I had expected to be apprehensive, but I had certainly not expected what I experienced; my walk through the little wood separating my lawn from the river was one I shall never forget. There were things in that wood, things I heard whisper and move.

Do you believe me? If you do not--if you believe I am spinning fancies for my own entertainment--so much the better. You did not see their eyes or hear their voices, George. I did.

I bathed by the light of the oil lamp my neighbor had kindly loaned me, and tried to think only about washing clothes. With the money I had gotten in the pawnshop I would be able to wash and dry everything at the Laundromat (this I told myself over and over). On the way home, I would deposit my allowance check--something I ought to have done already.

I had been sleeping on a pad of old newspapers, as you may remember. The mattress that had cost me so much labor was somewhat lumpy and far from new, but how I luxuriated upon it! Had it been dark, I believe I might have been terrified; it was not--one of the advantages of sleeping before a fire.

There can be few things more surprising than waking to find that
there is another person in your bed. It had never befallen me before, but it did that night, when I was roused quite pleasantly by the caresses of a small hand.

You are a man of wide experience, George, or at least you say you are. You would only be irritated by a recital of my clumsy fumblings. Suffice it to say that I quickly learned that my partner was small but by no means a child, slender but pleasantly curved. Other than that, her nails were long, as was her hair. It was all I knew, and it was more than enough for me.

Much later, when we had both slept for some hours and the morning sun had come to supplant my dying fire, I was able to admire her delicate oval face and long black hair. My admiration held more than a little curiosity, as you may imagine. Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she gotten into the house?

How, for that matter, did Emlyn and his brother do it?

Why had she chosen to give herself to me?

It was not until I saw my own clothing, folded and stacked beside my shoes, that I thought to wonder about hers. A few glances showed clearly enough that it was nowhere in the room.

She woke, opening her eyes and smiling; her smile (how well I recall it!) was gentle, sly, and utterly enchanting. Elfin, George. You do not know what that word means, but I do now.

"So nice . . ." It was a whisper, and her whisper is enchanting, too.

"So beautiful," I said. "You're lovely. Yes, truly lovely, and I knew you would be."

She giggled, and her little hand stroked me beneath the blanket; I tried to explain that I could not cooperate, although I hoped to later.

"It was nice . . ."

"Thank you. For me it was quite wonderful."

"So nice we tore the mattress. Did you see?"

"Did we? I don't care."

"The stuffing leaked."

"Did it? I hadn't noticed. It's an old mattress, however. It must have been in the attic for a very long time, and I'm afraid that some structural weaknesses are to be expected."

"This leaked out. See?" She held up a handful of currency.

I accepted it from her, and when I had counted it, she gave me another. "Are you going to wash?"

"Not now," I told her. "In a moment."

"Then your little pet's going to wash first." She rose, managing to drape herself in the blanket as she stood, and fled giggling into the master bedroom.

That was the last time I saw her, George. Eventually I went into the master bedroom myself. The bathroom door stood wide. The blanket she had taken lay on the floor, and the window had been opened.

She was gone.

What am I to do? Place an ad?

Lost, a young woman. Long black hair, oval face, dark brown eyes, tiny nose, delightful little mouth, perfect complexion. Long nails painted black. Accent. Wearing nothing when last seen. Reward.

Of course I have done all the obvious things. I have looked around outside for footprints or something of the sort, and found nothing. I have tried to look into every room on both floors, and though I cannot be sure I visited them all--there must be at least forty--I did the best I could. I have scoured the neighborhood twice.

These things have kept me on my feet all morning, and now I sit, writing you about them. I can only hope she will return.

Yours sincerely,

Bax

Dear George:

Another letter so soon? Well, yes. It's evening now--no, night. Full dark.

And she has not returned. Winkle did, and gratefully received the scraps of meat I had brought her from Martha's table. I had never expected to have a tame fox. Indeed, I have never heard of anyone who did, although there must be others.

You will laugh, but I told her about the girl who had visited me, how lovely she was and what she had meant to me while we were together. Winkle looked as sympathetic as it is possible for a fox to look, laid one neat black paw in my lap, and whispered. "She cometh. She cometh. She cometh thoon."

I telephoned Martha. "This is Bax. I wanted to make sure you're all right."