Down a Dark Hall

  “Listen, now,” Sandy said. “See if you like this.

  Out of the wind that rules the realm of night

  And lonely stars held captive in the sky,

  I search for Peace, that death may pass me by

  Lost in eternity, as light in light

  Is lost, beyond the echo of a Sigh.

  Where moonlight on the moors in patterns gleams

  Against the shadows, only Peace should be,

  And there I search, but Peace is not for me.

  A moment’s rest, left undisturbed by dreams,

  Is all I ask. . . .

  “Stop! Please, stop!” Kit held up a restraining hand. “I don’t want to hear the rest. It’s morbid. It sounds as though you’re dead.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” Sandy said in a hurt voice.

  “Well, I don’t. What’s happened to you, Sandy? We used to laugh so much together. Remember the jokes we used to tell and how we planned to short-sheet Ruth’s bed? We were going to have a party one night too, and sneak a lot of food up to my room and make it a midnight feast.”

  “Do you still want to do those things?” Sandy asked in wonder.

  “No,” Kit admitted. Somehow the plans that had sounded like so much fun in the early days at Blackwood now seemed childish and ridiculous. Sandy glanced down at the poem in her hands.

  “Ellis doesn’t think it’s very good,” she said. “She doesn’t want me to submit it to a publisher or anything. She thinks we can do better.”

  “You’re doing it again!” Kit interrupted in exasperation. “You’re talking about this—this dream person as though she were real!”

  “Is she a dream?” Sandy asked slowly. “When she talks to me, it’s so sensible and right. I’ve been thinking, Kit, do you remember what Ruth was saying about all of us having various forms of extrasensory perception?”

  Kit nodded.

  “Well, what if I’ve used mine to tune in on somebody, a real person who is living somewhere in the world and has a mind that operates on the same wavelength that mine does. Is that impossible?”

  “You mean you think that somewhere there really is a woman named Ellis?” Kit asked incredulously.

  “Why not? She doesn’t have to be anywhere near here or even in this country. In fact, I have a feeling she isn’t in this country—the way she speaks and her references to things like moors and yew trees—she may live someplace like England or Scotland.”

  “It isn’t possible,” Kit said. “People don’t communicate through dreams. They write letters or e-mails, they make phone calls—”

  “Don’t yell,” Sandy said. “You’re making my head hurt. I can’t explain this, Kit. Ruth’s the one who’s the expert on scientific happenings. All I know is that Ellis is real to me, more real than any dream could be. Whether or not you like her poetry doesn’t matter. I like it, and I’m happy to be the one she communicates it to.”

  Her narrow face was flushed with anger, and Kit felt her own temper flaring in response.

  “You sound like a twelve-year-old who has a crush on a movie star! Except that with a movie star at least you can see her on the screen.”

  “Shut up,” Sandy snapped. “I’m sorry I ever told you about Ellis.”

  “You didn’t have to tell me. I heard you screaming, remember? You didn’t think this super poet was so great then!” Try as she would, Kit could not bite back the sharp words. “It’s this place, this terrible place! It’s doing something to you! You’re getting almost as crazy as Lynda!”

  But Sandy had already turned on her heel and left the room, pulling the door shut hard behind her. Exhausted, Kit let herself fall back across her bed. The intensity of the argument left her drained and vaguely frightened. Sandy was her friend, the closest friend she had in this strange, fenced-in world of Blackwood. How could she possibly have spoken to her in such a way, actually accusing her of being insane? Why were Sandy’s rationalizations any less to be respected than her own or Ruth’s? If Sandy was crazy, then they all were.

  She should call her back and apologize. She knew it, and yet her weariness was so great that the effort was more than she could make. She raised her hands and pressed them tight against her eyelids, and felt the throbbing in her head which meant the beginning of the music. I won’t listen, she told herself. This time I’ll defeat it. I won’t lie here and listen.

  But as had happened that night in the kitchen when Madame Duret had ordered her upstairs, her body would not obey her mental command. It lay upon the bed, and like an audience at a concert, Kit felt the music rushing upon her, soft at first, then louder and stronger, picking up pace and volume.

  “Sandy!” she longed to cry. “Sandy—come back! Come help me!”

  But although she could feel her throat straining with the words, they were lost in the music. Louder now, it came building and building to what she knew would soon be a crashing crescendo.

  Too tired to combat it, she stopped resisting and let herself go, to be carried like a leaf in a rushing current of silent sound. Eventually she slept. She was not conscious of this happening, but when she opened her eyes the afternoon light had faded from the sky beyond the window and the room was dark.

  And there was cold. So much cold that she did not know if she could move. Her whole body was leaden with the weight of it. It was the same strange cold that she had felt in Sandy’s room on that night so many weeks ago, a chill too intense to be natural, touched with the sensation of dampness and a faint odor that she could not place.

  For a few moments she lay there, unmoving. Then, with a gigantic effort, she stretched out her hand and found the lamp. The light sprang on, and the familiar room came into being around her—the dresser, the desk, the gilt-edged mirror, the arched red canopy over the bed. Fighting the lethargy that threatened to drag her back into unconsciousness, Kit got up and went to the closet for a sweater. Taking it from its hanger, she thrust her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it up to the neck. The cold seemed to slide through the heavy material and seep into her very pores.

  Shivering violently, she glanced at her watch. Six forty-five. Downstairs in the dining room dinner would be under way. She could picture the great round table under the twinkling chandelier and the group that would be gathered around it: Madame, stately and gracious; friendly, bearded Professor Farley; Jules, handsome and brooding. Ruth would be at the table. And Sandy. I’d better go down, Kit thought, if only to see Sandy. If I don’t, she’ll think it’s because of our argument. The sooner things could be made right between herself and Sandy the better.

  The thought of food made her feel slightly nauseated. Still, anything was better than staying alone in a room that was as cold as a tomb.

  Stepping out into the hall, Kit pulled the door closed behind her and locked it. The air was warmer here, but she still found herself shivering. At the far end of the hall the dim bulb threw out its faint circle of light, and the whole corridor seemed made out of shadows.

  Slowly, Kit began to walk down the hallway toward the stairs. In the mirror at the hall’s end she saw a thin, white-faced girl in a heavy-knit sweater moving toward her.

  Is that me? she thought, momentarily startled by the girl’s appearance, the dullness of the eyes, the limp, uncombed hair, the heavy, methodical walk. Was this the same Kit Gordy who had bounced down this hallway only a matter of months ago, eyes shining, face alight, to greet her new classmates?

  I look awful, Kit thought wretchedly. And then, as she tilted her head, she caught sight of him, the person walking behind her. In horror she stood there, frozen, one foot lifted for the next step, her eyes staring into the other eyes reflected in the mirror.

  It can’t be, she told herself. There can’t be anyone behind me. The hall was empty when I came out of my room. Anyone behind me now would have had to have come out of it with me, and that’s impossible. And yet the man was there, his image as clear as her own, standing so close behind her that it was incredible that she did not feel
his breath upon the back of her neck.

  Dragging in her breath, Kit did the only thing that she could do. She closed her eyes and screamed.

  Once she started, she could not stop. Scream after scream tore from her throat in great, ragged shrieks. For what seemed like a million years she screamed, until as though from another world she heard the sound of footsteps pounding on the stairs and a voice calling her name. Then strong hands closed upon her shoulders.

  Jules’ voice said, “Kit! Kit, what is it? What’s happened?”

  “There—” Kit managed to sob, “there, behind me—”

  “There’s nothing behind you.”

  Kit opened her eyes and stared up at him, at the fine-boned, perfectly featured face bent close to her own, at the heavy-lidded dark eyes, filled now with real concern.

  Gone was the anger that had flared there the day she had intruded upon him in the music room while he was playing the Schubert tape. Gone was the discomfort that had existed between them since.

  He cares, she thought, and even through her terror she clutched at the realization. He does care.

  “There was someone,” she said chokingly. “A man. He was walking behind me. I saw him reflected in the mirror.”

  “There couldn’t have been.”

  “There was!”

  “Okay, you’re okay. It’s all right.” Jules pulled her against him so that her face was buried against his shirt, and his hand ran lightly over her hair. “You saw a shadow. Or perhaps it was your own reflection.”

  “It was a man!” She tried to cry the words, but they were muffled by the warm bulk of his shoulder. From somewhere beyond them she heard other voices and she knew that they were coming, all of them, from the floor below. In another moment they would be here surrounding her, patting and comforting her, telling her in rational terms what it was that she had been imagining.

  Pressing her hands against Jules’ chest, she shoved him away from her so that she could see his face.

  “Please,” she said frantically, “you must believe me. You have to believe me.”

  “Kathryn!” The voice was Madame Duret’s. “What in the world has happened?”

  “What is it, Kit?”

  “Kit, are you all right?”

  “Was that you we heard?”

  She had known it would be this way. Professor Farley, Ruth, Sandy—all of them worried. She felt Sandy’s hand touch her arm, a silent reassurance that their friendship was still intact. Even if no one else did, Sandy would believe her.

  “She’s frightened,” Jules explained. “She thought she saw somebody in the mirror.”

  “Somebody?”

  “A man. I saw a man.” Kit struggled to get control of her voice. “I didn’t just think I saw him, I did see him. He was just as real as I am.”

  “What did he look like?” Professor Farley asked her. His keen, old eyes were regarding her intently.

  “I—I don’t know,” Kit said haltingly. “The hall’s so dark, I couldn’t see him very well. And my own reflection was partially blocking him. But he was there. There’s no doubt about it.”

  “Then where has he gone?” Madame Duret asked matter-of-factly. She gestured toward the stretch of empty hallway leading back to Kit’s door. “If someone had been there, chérie, he would have to be there still. If he had run past you, he would have had to pass us on the stairs.”

  “He could have gone back,” Sandy suggested timidly. She dropped her hand and slipped it into Kit’s. “Kit’s room and mine are both down at that end of the hall. He might have gone into one of them.”

  “You keep your rooms locked, don’t you?” Ruth asked. She sounded more interested than worried. Her eyes were aglitter with subdued excitement.

  “Yes, but still—”

  Kit could tell from Ruth’s face that she too was remembering the instance of the missing portrait, when a locked door had been no deterrent to an invader. She knows something, Kit thought. Somehow Ruth has gone a step ahead of the rest of us.

  “Well, there’s one way to be sure of things,” said Professor Farley. “Give me your keys, girls, and Jules and I will check your rooms. If there’s any possible chance that there is someone in this building who doesn’t belong here, we want to know about it.”

  Sandy and Kit both handed him their keys. In silence they watched the two men go down the hall and enter first one room and then the other. It did not take long.

  “All empty,” Professor Farley said. “There’s nobody in the closets or under the beds. I’m afraid you were imagining things, young lady. I can see how one might, too, the way the shadows shift about. Walking toward the mirror gives one a strange sensation.”

  “But I wasn’t imagining it,” Kit exclaimed. And then, a bit doubtfully, “He seemed so real.”

  “Like my Ellis?” Sandy suggested softly.

  “No,” Kit said. “Not like that. I was wide awake, not dreaming.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I was standing right here.”

  “I think we had best return to the dining room,” Madame Duret said firmly. The tone of her voice, pleasant but definite, told them that the issue was now behind them, something that need not be agonized over or discussed any further. “The professor is correct, the light in this hallway is terribly disconcerting. I shall call once again tomorrow about those electricians, and if I cannot get someone from the village, I will call into Middleton.

  “Now, do let us return to our dinner before everything is cold. Are you feeling better, Kathryn?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Kit said shakily. And though the last thing she felt like doing was eating, she let herself be guided down the stairs and on into the dining room.

  The table had been cleared of the soup bowls. They took their seats, and at the tinkle of Madame’s silver bell the kitchen door opened and Lucretia appeared, her gray brows drawn together in a scowl.

  “Please bring the main course now, Lucretia,” Madame told her.

  Without a word the older woman turned and went back through the doorway. Kit stared after her in bewilderment.

  “Why is Lucretia doing the serving?” she asked. “Is Natalie sick?”

  “Natalie is no longer in my employ,” Madame informed her. Her voice carried no hint of emotion, but Kit, remembering the scene in the kitchen when those two black eyes had struck her like thunderbolts, was filled with sudden suspicion.

  “Why?” she asked. “Did you let her go?”

  “Let her go? Why, of course not.” Madame took her napkin and spread it in her lap. “Good cooks like Natalie are difficult to acquire these days. No, the girl asked to leave. She is getting married a week from Saturday.”

  “Married!” Kit exclaimed. It was the last thing she had expected to be told.

  “That’s so nice,” Ruth commented. “She must be so excited! Who is she marrying, somebody from the village?”

  “I imagine so. Whom else would she find?” Madame said easily. “But with so much of our help gone now, I am afraid we shall all have to do a bit of the work. Nice as it would be, a place like Blackwood does not take care of itself, you know. Starting tomorrow, I must make out a chore list for everyone.”

  The door swung open again and Lucretia entered, bearing a platter of underdone chicken, and the subject of conversation was terminated.

  The phone call came at eight thirty that evening. The girls were gathered in the parlor only half-watching a nature program on PBS when Jules appeared suddenly in the doorway.

  “Phone for you, Kit,” he said. “Long-distance. It’s your mother.”

  “It is?!” For a moment Kit thought her heart would leap out of her chest. In an instant she was on her feet, hurrying toward him. “Where can I take it?”

  “The land-line phone is in the office,” Jules said. “You’d better hurry. Overseas calls cost a fortune.”

  When she entered the office, Kit found Madame Duret seated at her desk. The telephone sat at her right, the re
ceiver off the hook. Madame picked it up and held it out to Kit.

  “Are you not the lucky one—a call from Italy! Do give your mother my regards.”

  Kit snatched the receiver. She found her hand was trembling as she raised it to her ear.

  “Hello, Mom?”

  “Oh, honey!” Her mother’s tiny voice sounded a million miles away, but the warmth, the inflections, the love, were so familiar that for the second time that evening Kit found her eyes blurred with tears. “It’s so wonderful to hear you.”

  “You too,” Kit said. “How are you? How’s Dan? Where are you calling from? Are you having fun?”

  “So much fun,” her mother said, “you can’t imagine. We’re in Florence now, and tomorrow we leave for Rome. Just think, we’ll actually be visiting St. Peter’s and the Forum and the Catacombs—all the places you always read about!”

  She sounds so young, Kit thought in amazement. Her mother, with the silver threads in her hair, the soft cobweb of lines at the corners of her eyes, the back that ached after a day of typing, sounded like a young girl, bubbling with enthusiasm and vitality.

  “And you, honey? How are you? Do you love it at Blackwood?”

  “Mom!” Kit was stunned at the question. “Haven’t you been reading my letters?”

  “We got one in Cherbourg,” her mother said, “but that was almost immediately after we arrived. It’s the only letter we’ve received, and your cell phone doesn’t seem to be working. That’s why I’m calling. Dan said he was sure that you were just too busy to write and had forgotten to charge your cell, but I was worried that you might be ill. You haven’t been, have you?”

  “No,” Kit said. “Cell phones don’t work in this area, but I’ve written every week. I’ve told you about everything—​absolutely everything.”

  In her chair at the desk, Madame shifted her weight, and Kit moved a few paces away, stretching the phone cord to its full length.

  “It’s the overseas mail then,” Kit’s mother said. “It’s so hard to be sure of your timing when you’re sending things care of American Express. You must be just missing us every place we go. Well, tell me, how is everything? Are you studying hard? Do you have nice friends?”