Late at Night Read online

  She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

  But wait—on the night table. Something was there. Some object. She was certain it had not been there before. Positive. She reached out to grab it, feeling that she was already being called back, that the effects of the spell were ending. Too soon. Not soon enough. As her fingers closed around the object on the table, she noticed a shadow, a shadowy figure, standing off to one side. She could not get a clear look at it; already things were beginning to fade. She felt that tugging again. Had the figure been there all along? Probably. She had not noticed it until now, over there in the one dark corner of the room. It was approaching. She wondered who—or what— it could be. She felt a terrible, petrifying sense of danger. She forgot all about the object in her hand, her intention to look at it and to see what it was, what it might tell her. The figure was coming closer. She wanted to scream. Her heart was beating faster, the sound of it pounding in her ears. The figure raised an appendage; an arm, she imagined. She did scream. There was a sudden, sharp pain. Then blankness.

  * * *

  When she woke up it was nighttime.

  She was completely exhausted. She was lying on her back and her fingers were wrapped around something. What is this? How did it get here? She had never seen it before.

  Then she realized where it had come from, that she had failed to let go of it when everything had started fading away. For a moment she was thunderstruck with the implications, the possible repercussions, the meaning of it all.

  But then she remembered something else.

  The figure, that figure in the shadows, that had come out of the corner and approached her, approached her as inexorably as death.

  And she knew, irrefutably, incontrovertibly, that somehow, in someway, back there, back then, she had stood on the very threshold of her own unlamented demise.

  Chapter 1

  The boat left the party of fourteen on Lammerty Island and headed back for the mainland. The skipper had been a joking, jovial man who spent much of the trip debunking the tall tales about ghosts and strange occurrences that revolved around the island. He would have made some members of the expedition feel a little better if he had stayed for dinner, after all; but he and his first mate—his eldest son, actually—had things to do in town and couldn’t wait.

  He would return early Monday morning, he told them, for the trip back.

  The party stood on the dock watching the boat go. Gloria Bordette was smoking like a chimney, one after the other, looking about anxiously for signs of friendly life. Her young lover, Jerry Hardington, looked as blasé and as beautiful as ever. He lifted up two heavy bags, both of which belonged to Gloria—his own stuff was in a knapsack on his back—and said somewhat petulantly, “Which way do we go?”

  Lynn Overman spoke up at once. “Let’s see. That way, I think. I’ve only been here once before, when I was a little girl. We go up this path, over the little bump, and through those trees over there. See? You can see the top of the guest house from here.”

  There was a burst of appreciative “ahs.”

  “Beautiful. Just beautiful,” Betty Sanders sighed. “It’s paradise!” She shook her squat little body and took a deep breath and scrunched up her shoulders like a cat about to sleep after eating a canary.

  “Let me take those, ma’am,” Hans Swenson said as he swooped down and took Betty’s suitcase and traveling bag in his enormous, weather-beaten paws. A big, tall Swede of forty-five, he would have been twenty-six-year-old Betty’s perfect man if only he drank less beer and had more hair.

  If not quite paradise, Lammerty Island in springtime was indeed a sight to behold. On this particular day the sun was shining brightly overhead and there was a mild, pleasant breeze blowing in from the sea. If you squinted just a bit you could see the mainland, but the view out onto the immeasurable vastness of the Atlantic was more memorable. The island was basically flat, with some dips and rises here and there, cliffs along one side, and the small hill just before the guesthouse that Lynn had referred to as a “bump.” And it did look like a bump, a small nodule of dirt and weeds lying across the pathway. Most of the vegetation that could be found on the island was only just starting to reaffirm its existence since the frigid death of winter, but the visitors could hear the cawing, flapping sounds of. seagulls and other birds in the air overhead. On both sides of the dock were shattered outcroppings of jagged rock upon which the tides drummed their relentless beat. It was not warm today, and several members of the “expedition,” as they’d come to call themselves, were wishing they had worn sweaters and overcoats. Winter was supposed to be over, true, but this was an island in the middle of nowhere, not a condo in Miami or a beachfront in Malibu. An island. In the middle of nowhere. Nowhere. A deserted, presumably haunted island. The mind boggled.

  They began the trek to the house. “Imagine, Lynn,” Cynthia Marcovicci, a very lovely, slender brunette of twenty-six kept saying over and over, “You own your own island! It’s so fantastic. I thought only millionaires owned their own islands.”

  Lynn exchanged grins with the attractive middle-aged man walking along beside her. He was John Everson, her lawyer, and both knew only too well that one did not have to have a million dollars in order to own an island. Since he represented the estate of Gladys Hornbee, Lynn’s eccentric aunt, it had been Everson’s pleasure to tell Lynn that she had been left her aunt’s Atlantic retreat, and his regret to also inform her that the island was just about the only thing that the aunt had had left to pass on. “It’s in such an awkward location,” he had told her. “I don’t think anyone will want to buy it. But perhaps some weekend we can go out and look it over; you can decide what you want to do. Bring a group of friends, perhaps. The island has quite a history. You’re into all that stuff, aren’t you? You should find it fascinating.”

  So Lynn, who could have used some money but got acres of rock and trees and pounding surf instead, found herself stuck with an island nobody wanted. She organized a group to go out for the weekend, as Everson had suggested, and when a time convenient for everyone finally arrived, she let the lawyer make all the arrangements. So here we are, she thought grimly. Actually, the fact that the island was notable in some circles as being a center of supernatural forces was about the only thing that kept her from not bothering with it. How could she ignore a piece of landscape that had such an incredible reputation?

  “What do you think, Andrea?” she asked. “Is it as fantastic as Cynthia seems to think?” Andrea pulled her long, blond hair away from her eyes and gave her friend a hesitant smile. “I—I’m not sure. I keep getting these odd feelings.”

  Anton Suffron, a homely but personable concert pianist from Rumania, rolled his eyes, but kept his mouth shut. He looked at the tall, mustachioed man standing next to him, but the fellow was too busy wiping his sunglasses to have any reaction to Andrea’s unstated premonitions of disaster. Anton made no secret of the fact that he found such hocus-pocus trying. “Let’s not queer the whole weekend already, Andrea dear,” he finally said in the droll monotone he kept in reserve for idiots. “I’m here to have fun, not to listen to you go on about ‘the spirits.’ ”

  Andrea gave him a weary look. She’d heard it all before. “I was just answering Lynn’s question, Anton.” She looked at their hostess. “I’m sure it’s a lovely place, Lynn. I can’t help picking up vibrations, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be a wonderful weekend.” She glared at Anton. “In spite of the presence of some people.” The caravan continued on its way. Anton again tried to start a conversation with the strapping young man beside him. The shades were back in place, giving him that distant, dispassionate appearance affected unconsciously by everyone who wore sunglasses. “What do you think of all this psychic stuff, Mr. Theiser?”

  “Thesinger,” the man corrected. Anton shrugged.

  Before the other could answer, Suffron said, “When we were introduced earlier I missed some information, probably due to Gloria’s babbling. Are you Lynn
’s friend? Or Mr. Everson’s? I haven’t met you before, have I?”

  Thesinger knew that Anton had once been romantically involved with Lynn Overman, and that he was still carrying the torch. The fact that Lynn was now involved with her lawyer didn’t prevent Anton from getting jealous over other males in the vicinity. To assure the pianist that he was no rival, he said quickly, “I’m an acquaintance of John Everson’s. He’s my cousin, actually. We’ve only met a few times before this. But I once mentioned to him that I’d love to do a piece on Lammerty Island.”

  “A ‘piece’? Oh, you mean you’re a writer.”

  Thesinger laughed. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “Indubitably, my good fellow,” Anton smiled. “A fellow artist.” He looked wary for a second. “Just what it is you write?”

  “Articles mostly. For geographical and historical magazines. I’m on assignment for American Archives now. John told me about this trip to the island and invited me along, suggested I do a write-up on its history. Actually being here in the flesh is really going to add something to the article.”

  “I can imagine.”

  There was a shout and those in the front of the procession turned around to see what the commotion was. Margaret Proust Plushing, the cook, was on her knees, making awful grunts and wearing a stricken expression. Hans Swenson dropped the suitcases and went to the woman’s aid. “She’s all right,” he yelled to the others up front. “Just tripped on a stone.”

  “God in Heaven,” the woman swore as she was helped to her feet. “Just off the boat and already I’m breaking my ankle.”

  “Is she okay?” Lynn called.

  “I’m all right, dear,” Margaret yelled back. She balanced on one foot while she examined the other. “Nothing broken, thank goodness.” She was a plump woman in her sixties: apple cheeks, a fleshy, dimpled chin, short brown hair. Her expression was stern, but underneath she was warm and hearty.

  “Come on, girls,” she said jauntily. “Forward march.” The two young ladies with her were Emily Seaver, a freckle-faced lass of twenty-two with blue eyes and braces, and Joanne Nobele, a nineteen-year-old of French descent with too much baby fat, but a lovely face beneath carefully coiffed blond tresses. They were the housekeepers. Margaret, the two girls, and Hans were all employees of John Everson’s, and usually worked at his enormous estate in New Bedford. When offered the chance to spend a weekend by the ocean, they’d all readily consented. Eric Thomas, a brooding, dark-haired man of thirty-eight with sullen eyes and sunken cheeks, was also along for the weekend. Eric was Everson’s chauffeur, and Hans was the handyman and gardener, but for the next two days they’d be doing whatever assorted tasks were required of them. Eric was not crazy about being stuck on an island, but he could use the extra money to pay assorted bar bills and gambling debts.

  The group of fourteen trudged over hill and dale, their assorted bundles making the relatively short trip from deck to guest house seem like a month in the New York subway. The housekeepers groaned under the weight of the boxes Mrs. Plushing had ordered them to carry, boxes full of canned goods, liquor bottles, pots and pans, plates, glasses, and cutlery. Gloria waddled along in her sensible sneakers, her body fat tucked into ridiculously tight designer jeans, dangling her sunglasses in her hand and commenting on the freshness of the air and the beauty of the view.

  Finally they stood in front of the guest house.

  “Well, it isn’t the Hilton,” Gloria quipped, “but it will do.”

  The guest house was rather spacious. Everyone would be quite comfortable, and the separate rooms would even afford a certain amount of privacy. The house had three floors, a gracious living room and dining area, a fairly large kitchen, and several small but attractive bedrooms. John Everson, Hans, and some other hired men had come out some days before to make sure that the lights were working, the water running, and everything else in order so the guests would have no nasty surprises. John had resisted taking a good look around the island at the time, figuring he’d save the main event for when everyone else was there. He and Hans were the only two of the party who had already seen the entire guest house.

  John had already picked out bedrooms for everyone. The large room on the top floor with the big double bed was for him and Lynn, seeing as how she owned the island and he was sleeping with her … although the way their relationship had been going lately, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t wind up bunking down somewhere in the living room. As far as he knew, none of the others were romantically involved—besides Gloria and Jerry, of course—so he had to team up roommates, when necessary, with an eye to personality and not existing partnerships. Andrea Peters, the psychic, and Cynthia Marcovicci already seemed to know one another pretty well, and looked just a few years older than your typical college roommates; he put the two of them together in a bedroom on the second floor. Gloria Bordette and Jerry Hardington he placed in the room next to the one he was sharing with Lynn, hoping to limit the sound of creaking bedsprings to one floor.

  There were two smaller bedrooms on the second floor, in which he placed Betty Sanders and Anton Suffron respectively. They would have to share a bathroom (each of the bedrooms on the third floor, and the larger bedroom on the second floor, had its own private bath), but he thought Betty would prefer that minor inconvenience to sleeping in the quarters he’d chosen for his writer-relative, Ernest Thesinger. John had put him in a small storage room on the first floor, in which Hans had placed a cot, a desk, and a typewriter.

  He figured Ernie might want to stay up late typing, working on his article about the island, and this way he would have privacy and not keep everyone else awake. It was the least glamorous “boudoir” in the guest house, barring the servants’, but he suspected Ernie would think it was just perfect.

  There were cramped, but functional, quarters for the servants past the kitchen and dining area. One large room that had a bed against one wall and a bunkbed against the other would be shared by Mrs. Plushing and the girls. Hans and Eric would share the room next door, one in the bed, the other in a sleeping bag. There was a separate bedroom back there, too.

  After giving out the room assignments—during which Gloria “oohed” and ”ahhed“ and kept asking to be excused to the bathroom, would someone tell her where it was?—John escorted Lynn to the third floor, up the large, carpeted staircase, motioning Gloria and her handsome young companion to follow. Cynthia, Andrea, Anton, and Betty took up the rear. The others stayed behind on the first floor—the employees venturing forth into the kitchen and the environs beyond, and Ernie going in the opposite direction towards the storage room next to the lounge.

  No one said it out loud. None could have said just why. But they were all thinking the same thing.

  This place gives me the creeps.

  Chapter 2

  “What do you think of the room, Jerry?” Gloria asked as she ran over to the window and took some more of her deep breaths. ”Ahhh, the air is so clean and fresh. Not at all like the city.”

  Jerry plopped down on the bed and bounced upon the mattress. It was soft and lumpy, the way he liked it. He knew Gloria would complain (she was always complaining) because she preferred hard mattresses, and would psych herself into a “simply wretched” backache even before she had slept in the bed. He watched his lover fly about the room, fussing here and there, touching the lace curtains on the window, picking up dusty bric-a-brac on the ancient wooden bureau, and poking furtively into the closet. “Hello, anybody in there?” She smiled and turned to Jerry, to see if he were smiling. He was.

  “I think it’s nice,” he said. “Real nice.”

  “How’s the bed? Hard like I like it?” She came racing over towards him, and he grimaced involuntarily. He hoped she wouldn’t make waves because the bed wasn’t hard, ask for another room, make a nuisance of herself, and embarrass the both of them. She surprised him. She reached out, bent over the bed, pressed down with one hand, said nothing. Then she sat on the bed, the weight of her body causing the sp
rings to creak and leaving an indentation of no small size in the mattress when she arose. “Soft, isn’t it?” she said. “Well, that’s too bad. Can’t have everything, can we, dearie?” She grabbed his chin with her fingers, and shook his head affectionately. “Everything else is so nice, we can’t complain.”

  He exhaled with relief when her back was turned. One crisis averted.

  “Of course, I’ll get a simply wretched backache from it, but I’ll make an appointment with that lovely masseur in the health club on Tuesday, and I’ll be right as rain in no time. Come now, boy, we must unpack. What time did Mr. Everson say they’ll be serving dinner?” She rummaged through her suitcases, choosing one item, then another, throwing both back and settling on a third.

  “He didn’t. He just said that that lady, the cook, would have something ready in an hour or so. Jesus, we just had lunch on the mainland before we took the boat over.”

  “You know me,” she giggled. “Can’t go too long without sustenance. I’ll take the top two drawers in the dresser, all you’ll need is the bottom one. Come now, let’s get unpacked. Perhaps we can see some of the island before it’s nighttime.” She gave up trying to be orderly, simply took great handfuls of lingerie and accessories into her arms and threw them into the top drawer. She was a big woman, overweight, but still had a figure; large breasts, big hips, a round, protruding stomach that she squeezed into girdles. She was always moving, never stopping: hyperactive, talkative, cheery, and demanding. People who didn’t know her, judging her from her profession, figured she had to be a bitch. She was really very sweet, Jerry told them. Too sweet. Maybe that was her problem. Who had ever heard of a gossip columnist with a good heart?

  Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes blue and bright, her mouth small and dainty. She wore her hair short and wavy; still dyed it her original, zesty brown, although friends told her: “You’re getting older now. You’d look more natural if you’d just let it go gray.” Old. Getting old. Older. Not she. She still had far too much to do.