Late at Night Read online

  By this time Cynthia was down on the bed next to Andrea, still going a mile a minute. Nothing’s changed, Andrea thought, and it made her feel warm and needed inside. I feel like I’m nineteen again. Cynthia was sitting on the edge of her bed just like she used to do in school, pouring her heart out, totally self-involved, needing Andrea to talk to, to give her advice. There was something almost comforting about it. It was as if the years had just melted away, and they were kids again, still enacting the roles that had been assigned to them. Andrea was once again living vicariously through her more exciting friend.

  Andrea realized she should never have worried about having to tell Cynthia about her dull life as a file clerk … a psychic file clerk perhaps, but still a file clerk.

  As always, it was unlikely she’d get a word in edgewise, and as far as she was concerned that was just fine.

  Now if only she could shake the feeling of foreboding that was surrounding her, almost as tangible and cold as wet, clammy skin, as if a corpse had crawled into the room and was holding onto her, its fetid breath whispering danger, danger in her ear.

  Chapter 6

  Upstairs in the “master” bedroom, Lynn Overman and John Everson had put away their belongings and were dressing for dinner. John stood in front of the dresser, examining himself in the larger mirror hanging on the wall behind it. Lynn sat on the bed beneath a white, frilly canopy putting on her stockings. Her legs were plump, she noted with dispassion. The things that had once upset her seemed meaningless now, now that she had someone to love her. John liked her legs, had said so, so they were good legs, nice to look at, in his eyes at least. Flaws and imperfections were no longer flaws and imperfections when the person you loved was oblivious to them. She lifted up the other leg, grabbed the second stocking in her hand. She heard voices from the next room, and they started her mind wandering in a different direction.

  Looking over at her, John noticed the distant expression in her eyes. “What are you thinking about, dear?”

  “Oh … nothing,” she lied. She had been thinking how ironic it was: a young woman and an old —older— man in this room, and an old woman and a young—younger— man in the next. She wondered if Aunt Gloria were as happy with her young man as she was with her old one. John’s age had been a deterrent at first, there was no denying that, but he had come along at just the point when she needed him.

  At times she wondered if that was why she loved him: his timing. She dismissed those thoughts as being ultimately irrelevant. He was here and she was here, and that was all that mattered. Finished with her stockings, she stood up and said, “I wonder what kind of weekend this is going to be.”

  “I was wondering the same thing myself,” John said, fixing his tie. He walked to the closet to get his suitjacket. “I don’t anticipate any problems, do you?”

  “No, I guess not. It’s just that this place-well, it’s all right in the daytime, but I’m not especially looking forward to the dark.”

  Everson laughed. “Are you and Andrea planning to hold any séances?”

  “I’d be too frightened,” Lynn replied. “You never know what we might uncover.”

  “Well, you’ve got a lot to choose from. Pirates, maniacs, drowned sailors … you name it. You could have yourselves quite a picnic.”

  “I think I’ll forego that pleasure, thank you.” She stood up and began searching for a suitable piece of jewelry in the dresser. John now sat on the opposite side of the bed from where she’d been, and was bending down to pick up his shoes. He groaned a bit for effect as he squeezed one foot into the first shoe; a tight fit. He was such a dignified, staid-looking man that any attempt on his part to be comical or silly still startled Lynn.

  His black hair was graying becomingly; it was cut short, but attractively styled. He had a broad, squarish face with a wide mouth, deep blue eyes, and a full lower lip that gave him a continuously determined look. She had always thought that he would look good with a mustache, but he resisted the idea. He was of medium height, slender and solid. At times he would puff himself up as if trying to summon some extra toughness or courage or virility, and it was at those moments when he seemed the most vulnerable and when Lynn loved him the most.

  “I wonder what your employees think about their quarters,” Lynn asked. “Do you think Margaret will be able to cook up some of her wondrous dishes in that kitchen?”

  “I don’t doubt it in the least,” he said. “Margaret is at her best during moments of adversity.”

  Almost instinctively, Lynn went over to Everson’s side and embraced him. The guests could all wait. She would not let go.

  As they fell down onto the bed locked together, Lynn’s foot overturned a blue bag that she had overlooked when unpacking. “Just a second,” she said, leaning over to collect the bag’s spilled contents. Noticing one particular item, she turned pale, and her smiling expression rapidly faded.

  They made love, but her mind wasn’t on it.

  Chapter 7

  Downstairs in the storage room, Ernest Thesinger sat down on the cot they’d installed for him and took a good look around. The walls were gray brick, the ceiling low. He hoped it wouldn’t bring out his latent claustrophobia. They had put a battered old desk in one corner, a chair behind the desk, another more comfortable reading chair next to the bed. Everson had even supplied a typewriter, but Ernie had brought his own. There was one light in the ceiling and one of those floor lamps at the end of the cot where the pillow was. He had already unpacked; the typewriter, a nice, reliable, battered manual, was on the desk, along with the paper, pens, erasers, and other tools of his trade. He would have to use a small bathroom just outside the kitchen, so he had put his toiletries in there, and hung up some pants and things in the foyer closet. He left his shirts and underclothes in his suitcase, which he stored underneath the cot.

  Lammerty Island, Ernest thought, here I am. He was sure that he could work up a viable piece about the place and its fascinating history. It was an interesting spot geographically, too, with picturesque flora and fauna and striking scenery. He had brought along his camera and plenty of film. He could approach the story from any number of angles; sell different pieces on the same basic subject to several magazines. Still, one had to be careful with that. As long as he sold to magazines that had different readerships it would be all right. Perhaps an article on the island’s occult speculation for one of the more esoteric journals. A photospread with a solid historical overview—no ghosts, goblins, or things that go bump in the night, but fact-based notes on real people and their place in the country’s scheme of things—for National Geographic. He could also incorporate some of the shots and data into another proposed piece on wildlife along the New England coastline and its islands. Yes, there were many possibilities.

  The company seemed interesting, too. He didn’t know his cousin John well; the man could be a little distant, offputting. Was that what money did to people or was it all in Ernie’s mind? Yet, Everson seemed reasonably pleasant today, more so than before. The hostess, the new owner of Lammerty Island, Ms. Overman, was attractive and personable, though there was something strange, some mysterious hidden quality, about her that Ernie had yet to put his finger on. Or was that his writer’s imagination?

  Cynthia was funny and sexy, if too self-centered for Ernie to appreciate anything other than her considerable sex appeal. The other young lady, Andrea Peters, was moody and bordered on the slightly wacky, with her psychic protestations. Most of the occult aficionados Ernie had met were terribly phony and boring individuals. Andrea, however, had a fresh loveliness about her, a certain charm underneath the cool exterior, that might make it a real pleasure for him to find out just how genuine she might be.

  He didn’t quite know what to make of Gloria Bordette and her handsome, young (very young: what was he, twenty-five?) lover, but they were real characters, all right. She seemed likable enough, but he had an instinctive distrust of gossip writers, as if they were perverters of an art. Or was he just b
eing narrow-minded? Jerry had that certain sullen arrogance of youth and good looks, but Ernie sensed an underlying shyness that made him seem stand-offish. He would have to reserve judgment on both of them.

  Betty was sweet in that sad way of homely girls, and he found himself drawn to her, though not in a sexual or romantic fashion. She was really too quiet for him to have formed much of an opinion of her. The concert pianist Suffron was a bit—his mother would have said “snotty,” his father “highfalutin”—but there was an amusing glint in his eye, at the corner of his lips, as if to say, “Don’t worry, my snob act is just a put-on. Clever, isn’t it?” It took the sting out of his words and made you respond to him in a positive manner.

  Yes, a motley crew, Ernie thought. Too bad he only wrote non-fiction. He might have …

  Suddenly there was a commotion, a loud hue and cry, from out in the living room. Someone was yelling, carrying on. It sounded like one of the housekeepers. Ernie got up to investigate.

  He walked out of his bedroom and down the short, narrow hallway which led to the rest of the first floor. When he walked into the living room he was greeted by a most unexpected vision.

  Emily Seaver stood in the middle of the living room, completely naked. And she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Chapter 8

  “What was all that screaming about?”

  It was the number-one topic during dinner.

  Although the dining room was fairly large, the table was a bit cramped for eight people. Margaret had used a pretty white tablecloth with a flowery design as well as good china. Crystal water goblets and wine glasses were next to the plates, and fine silverware was wrapped up in clean linen napkins. Nothing but the best would do for John Everson and company. As they sat poking through a spinach salad with strips of hardboiled egg and bacon, the island’s guests pumped one another for information on the housekeeper’s astonishing behavior.

  “She was naked, you say? Stark naked?” There was a wild-eyed expression on Anton’s homely face.

  “Sssshhh,” Cynthia whispered. “She might hear you.”

  “It’s all right,” Andrea assured her. “They put the poor girl to bed. Apparently she’s still quite upset.”

  “Upset over what?” Anton wanted to know. “One doesn’t stand in the middle of a living room stark naked screaming for no reason at all.”

  Gloria looked up from her salad and wiped her lips daintily with her napkin. “Naked, did you say? My, this excursion is getting off to a lively start.” Jerry sat next to Gloria and she patted her lover’s hand. “And you thought this would be a dull weekend.” Jerry glared at her, his face reddening.

  “Well, tell us already,” Cynthia hissed. “What was the housekeeper screaming about?” She stared directly at Ernie. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  Ernest put down his water glass, swallowed, and paused for effect. Except for those of their hosts, all eyes were upon him. Lynn and Everson seemed to be mentally elsewhere. “I—I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said finally to a chorus of exasperated groans.

  “Margaret suggested it was some sort of fit,” Betty said selfconsciously, fiddling with the top button of her frilly silk blouse. She obviously hated to call attention to herself, especially in large groups. Ernest remembered that she had been the first one down the stairs after he’d walked into the living room to see Emily’s amazing performance. “After I came down,” Betty explained, “Mrs. Plushing and the other housekeeper—Joanne, the French girl—and one of the men came out into the living room and tried to calm Emily down. She was naked, and screaming something awful. She kept rubbing her arms and chest as if there were something smeared on them, but I didn’t see anything at all. Nothing.” She shook her head for emphasis. “The men—Mr. Thesinger, and I think it was Hans—stayed in the living room while Mrs. Plushing and Joanne and I tried to get Emily dressed and into her room. She kept saying something, ‘I saw blood. I was bleeding. Blood all over me.’ Something like that.”

  “ ‘There’s blood running down me. Why can’t you see it?’ ”

  Margaret Proust Plushing stood in the kitchen doorway, a steaming dish of red cabbage in her hands. “That’s just what she said.” Margaret repeated deliberately: ” ‘There’s blood running down me, Mrs. Plushing. Why can’t you see it?’ ” Margaret came forward and put the dish down on one end of the table. “Poor deluded girl. She was having fits, hallucinations. That’s all I can make of it. Says she saw a strange face in the mirror when she came out of the shower, something, jumped out at her through the fog on the glass, and then suddenly all this blood was spurting out of her skin, just running down over her breasts and arms and stomach.”

  “Bon appetit,” Anton said, raising his wine glass.

  If Anton’s sarcastic remark had been meant to stop Mrs. Plushing, it did not have the desired effect. “She was out of her mind,” Margaret continued, her face grim and stony and concerned. “Didn’t know where to go, her right from her left. Just started screaming for help and running all over the place. It took three of us to get her settled, that’s for certain.”

  Mr. Everson seemed to have at last been jogged out of his trance. “Will she be all right, Margaret?” he asked the cook. “Will Emily be all right? There won’t be a way off this island until Monday when the boat comes back.” Lynn looked up at the sound of his voice, startled, as if she’d been awakened from a deep sleep.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Margaret replied. “We put her to bed, gave her a sleeping pill.”

  “What was all this about blood?” Lynn asked.

  “There was none,” Margaret added firmly. “None whatsoever. She wasn’t bleeding at all. There were no injuries or marks anywhere on her body. We made sure of that. Now let me get you fine people the rest of your dinner.” She walked back into the kitchen, while John passed around the red cabbage.

  Cynthia sat back in her chair and touched her lips. “What could have made her think she was bleeding?”

  Gloria looked a little pale. “All this talk about blood at the dinner table,” she said. “Can’t we talk about something pleasant? Like wine.” She tapped her empty glass with a fingernail. “Or food?”

  “Well, I guess all the stories are true,” Jerry began to say, idly scratching his arm and sighing. Gloria looked at him enthusiastically, glad that someone was finally changing the subject.

  “I guess this place is haunted after all.”

  “Oh, Jerry. Really.“ Gloria put her hand over her eyes.

  “Well, the girl did say she saw something in the mirror,” Jerry argued. “A strange face or something. That sounds pretty spooky to me.”

  Cynthia rubbed away the goosebumps on her arms. “And here I am hoping she was one of these religious whackos who develop—what do they call it?—stigmata, where they start to bleed like Jesus Christ. That might explain the blood she thought she saw. Usually it turns out that these religious fanatics who see things and have visions and talk to God are just repressed women who need a good—”

  “I have an awful headache,” Lynn said, standing up suddenly. “I think I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and lie down for awhile.” She turned to John. “Tell Margaret to save me something for dinner. I’ll eat later.”

  Her guests performed the obligatory motions, expression concern, and Lynn went up th® staircase to her room.

  Everson emitted a heavy sigh and leaned forward on his elbows in a show of resignation. He offered no explanation for Lynn’s behavior. Muttering something about seeing what was holding up the rest of the dinner, he went into the kitchen.

  “He and Lynn must have had an argument,” Cynthia said, unnecessarily, as that much was obvious to all of them.

  “All that talk of blood and ghosts and faces in the mirror would give anyone a headache,” Gloria said, but the conversation had not affected her appetite. She scraped the last of the cabbage off her plate, and licked her lips. “Is this all we’re getting for dinner? Red cabbage? It was quite g
ood, but I’m afraid I was expecting something a little more substantial.”

  “I believe they’re have trouble in the kitchen,” Anton explained. And indeed, everyone could hear the raised voices of the lawyer and the cook coining from the adjacent chamber. Anton cocked his head—he was nearest the kitchen door—and tried to hear what they were saying. “Apparently,” he surmised, “the equipment in there is like something from the Dark Ages, and our poor Mrs. Plushing is having trouble with the roast.”

  “Well, I hope John doesn’t take it out on the poor woman,” Gloria said. “It’s not her fault if this place was built around the turn of the century.”

  “The 1860s actually,” Ernest smiled, thankful for the opportunity to add something to the conversation. He was by nature a quiet man, and easily overlooked unless he felt he had something to say. That would definitely be a problem with this flamboyant, prestigious crowd of actresses, concert pianists, and gossip columnists. “This was built for a family named Burrows in 1862,” he continued. “Originally all that stood was the first floor. It was servants quarters, nothing more. Burrows was a religious fanatic and something of a maverick. Not only would he not let his own servants sleep in the same house with him, he built their quarters at some distance from his mansion. Something about not wanting ‘inferiors’ living under the same roof. If an emergency arose late in the evening, one of his sons would have to run all the way to the servants’ house to rouse someone! Then in the 1920s the new owners, the Langdons, added two more floors, and built additions to the first floor, to make this a large guest house for visitors. Then when the main house—”

  Jerry laughed. “You mean this isn’t the main house!”

  “Oh no,” Ernie shook his head. “The main house was partially destroyed by a fire. It’s still standing, though, and from what I’ve heard is in good enough shape to be completely restored at some point. The fire occurred around 1931, and after that this house became the ‘main’ house. Lynn’s aunt bought the island in the fifties and stayed here in the summers every year until her death. I think John could confirm that.”