Blackbriar (19 page)

“Wet down here,” Danny said. Great clouds of steam came from his mouth.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s go.”

The boards were slippery, but much better going than the steps. Although the tunnel seemed to be heading in one general direction, it curved slightly, one way and then another, as though whoever had made it had only haphazardly planned the route. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. The dripping was all around them, and little icy droplets fell continually onto their heads. They slowly plodded onward, unable to guess how long it would be, not speaking, not looking behind. It was very cold.

Suddenly Danny noticed that Lark had been gradually walking more slowly, hanging onto his arm, so that now they were proceeding at about half their original pace.

“Hey,” he said, turning to her, “what’s wrong?” He could only see her face dimly in the reflected light from his flashlight.

“I—I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It’s like I’m slowly getting paralyzed, or something. It’s hard to make myself move, I just want to stop.”

“But why?”

“I think—it’s being in this tunnel.” They had stopped walking and she was looking around frantically at the walls and ceiling. “I hate this!” she cried suddenly. “I can’t
bear
it in here! We’ve got to get out, Danny.”

“But we’re almost there, I’m sure.”

“But . . . I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.”

“Come on,” he said, “don’t think about it,” and pulled her roughly and started walking at a quick pace again. She stumbled along behind, looking up at the ceiling. The muscle in her arm was tight and quivering.

“Don’t look up!” Danny said, glancing back at her. “Just look straight ahead, or else close your eyes. I’ll guide you.” When is this thing going to end? he wondered. Lark’s eyes were tightly closed, she was stumbling, slowing him down considerably. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought her, he thought. And what if the door at the other end is locked? I never thought of that. We’d have to go all the way back, she’d never make it. And what about Philippa then?

Lark stopped so suddenly that his hand jerked right out of hers.

“Lark?” he said. “Lark? Come on, we’re practically there.” He gave her arm a gentle tug but she resisted it. He sighed and dropped his hand.

“I can’t go any farther,” she said softly. “I just can’t make myself move.” Her head was down and her eyes still seemed to be closed. “You go on. I’m staying here.”

“But you can’t! How will you ever get out? Don’t be so stupid! Just come
on
.”

“No!”

“Oh, God,” Danny sighed. He turned and faced ahead. “Now what do I do?” he said.

“Just go on,” she murmured.

He groaned. And then he looked ahead more closely. Was that a light? He switched off his flashlight. There was a dim glow coming from around the bend just ahead. “Lark!” he cried, “Lark, open your eyes! There’s a light! Just around the corner.” She looked up. “See? Now you can make yourself move. Come on!” He grabbed her hand and began to run. She slipped and almost fell but he did not stop, and she staggered along behind him. They turned the corner, and ahead they saw the remains of a stone wall, part of which had been knocked away to make an entrance. The light was coming from behind it.

They stumbled through the wall. Lark moaned with relief. They were in a room. On the wall beside them was another torch in a bracket. Lark leaned against the stone wall and rested her head against it, looking up. “Oh,” she started to say, “what a—”

“Shhh!” Danny was looking around them. Across from where they stood was an ascending flight of stone steps.

“Do you think this is Harleigh Manor?” Lark whispered.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” He started toward the stairs, then turned back to her. “Remember, we’ve got to be as quiet as possible, there’s probably somebody here.”

At the top of the stairs was a heavy black metal door, tightly closed. Danny touched it gingerly, but it did not move. They glanced at each other for a moment, realizing that any noise could be disastrous. But if they could not open the door, there would be nothing to do but go back through the tunnel. It occurred to Danny that that might be the best thing after all.

He pushed again, with more force. Still the door would not move. He looked at the latch. Should I try it? he wondered. What about the noise? But he couldn’t think. With Lark’s heavy breathing beside him he grasped the latch and pushed down the catch with his thumb. There was a click. Then slowly, carefully, he began to push the door. It moved, silently. He pushed faster, faster, and there was a sudden squeak and a heavy scraping sound and he whipped his hand back to his side. His heart was pounding in his neck.

They waited, listening, but even after their hearts had quieted they could not hear a sound. The opening was still just a little too narrow to squeeze through, so in a moment Danny’s hand crept back to the latch. He pushed again, very slowly, and the door squeaked and scraped but his hand kept moving, even as Lark clutched at his arm with sharp nails. When the opening was just wide enough he stopped, turned to look at Lark, then stepped through the door. She followed quickly.

A foul smell greeted them. They were standing in a dimly lit kitchen, and as they waited just inside the door, motionless and listening, Danny’s eyes moved quickly. A candle, fastened by its own wax to a table in the center of the room, cast its struggling light over an array of dusty, haphazard objects on sagging shelves: glass bottles containing small bits of herbs and leaves, rusty iron implements he could not recognize, an empty whiskey bottle lolling carelessly on a tarnished silver platter. Everywhere there were plates with the remains of food still on them. At first the house seemed to be silent, but as they stood there they began to hear gentle creaks, and what were perhaps vague footfalls, filtering down from above.

They waited, but none of the sounds grew into anything definite, so soon Danny began to move. Beside the candle was a large mortar and pestle, still holding some strong-smelling herb. The surface of the table, really a large chopping board, was indented and scarred; strewn across it were old pieces of fat and bone, and several rusty knives and cleavers. Danny wondered if he should take one, but the idea of actually using it was unthinkable. Lark followed him; he stepped past the sink. It had no faucets, only a pump, and was filled with more food-encrusted dishes, some of which seemed to have been there for quite a while. They glanced at each other, and Lark grimaced and held her nose.

Danny pushed open the swinging door a crack, peered through, then they stepped into the next room. He turned back for a moment to be sure the door would close quietly—and suddenly Lark gave a terrified squeal and grabbed his arm.

Two eyes were staring at them. A lethal-looking chandelier, holding a few feebly sputtering candles, barely illuminated the full length of a long banquet table. But they could very clearly see the pair of glassy eyes at the other end.

Trembling, they stood and simply stared into the eyes, which, continued to gaze placidly back. Why doesn’t he say something? Why doesn’t he say something? Danny screamed inside himself. But all at once Lark gave a strange sort of sigh, dropped her arm, and rushed straight at the eyes.

Maybe it’s someone she knows, was his first thought. But the eyes ignored her, staring at him; and then Lark actually smiled and beckoned. He approached her carefully, and the shape around the eyes became the carcass of a large pig, bits of moist flesh still clinging to its empty ribs.

For a moment they clutched each other in relief. They were both still trembling. Danny pulled away first. Down the length of the table lay the remains of a feast. Greasy plates and cups and silverware, stained, crumpled napkins, fruit peel, sodden bits of puddings, cigarette and cigar ends embedded in pools of gelatinous gravy . . . It made him feel rather ill. He rested his hand on the back of a chair, and noticing the unusual texture, looked down. He quickly drew his hand away. It was exactly the same as the chairs at Blackbriar.

Lark had turned from the table and was peering behind the black velvet curtains that hung against one wall. They concealed a row of French windows looking out onto a moonlit garden, neglected and growing wild. It was a relief to see the outside again, but she felt something very close to hatred for anyone who would so deliberately hide from the out-of-doors.

A wide archway led from this room into a cramped front hall, where a narrow stairway rose dimly to the second floor. They paused, undecided about where to go. Danny began to notice creaks again. And then, distinctly, they heard a footstep above them.

Danny could barely see Lark’s worried face. He motioned to her, and they moved past the stairs into the large room that lay across the hall from the dining room. A bit of gray light from one window made visible the crowded, indifferent furniture, the moth-eaten rug, old cabinets of books, and in a large pot in a corner, the dusty, twisted skeleton of a long dead plant. Danny bent close to Lark’s ear and whispered, “There’s nothing down here. We’ve got to go upstairs.”

Lark frowned and shook her head. “Didn’t you hear that footstep?”

“Yes, but we have to find Philippa. That’s the only place left. And if somebody is up there, that’s where Philippa’s likely to be.”

The first step creaked so loudly that Danny instantly stepped down. But there was no alternative, and trying to make as little noise as possible, they crept up the stairs. The railing was missing rungs in many places, and swayed under the pressure of Danny’s hand. Paper was peeling off the wall beside them in long strips, exposing crumbling plaster beneath.

Just as he stepped onto the second floor, Danny heard footsteps again, and what could have been a moan. He turned to face Lark. She was shaking her head furiously, and pointing down the stairs. “No!” he hissed. “Come on. The footsteps are still above us. We’re as safe here as we were downstairs.”

Pale yellow light was coming from an open doorway opposite the stairs. He moved toward it cautiously and poked his head just inside. More black velvet covered all the walls except for one place across from him, where, in a large niche, surrounded by burning candles, stood a painting with a metal plaque beneath it.

There was no one in the room, and, less cautious now, they moved toward the picture. It was a portrait of a young woman. She was dressed all in black, in seventeenth-century clothes. The style was primitive. Her clothing was stiff, with awkward folds; her hair looked like metal springs; her hands were wooden. But the artist had somehow managed to capture a real expression on her face, an expression of lively but suppressed amusement. She looked as though she were trying not to laugh.

In her hand she held the same wooden doll that Danny, who had unconsciously reached into his pocket, now had in his. And at the top of the plaque was the name, M
ARY
P
EACHY
.

Danny laughed. He tried desperately to hold the laughter in, so that it came out like a garbled cough, but for a full minute he could not stop. “Stop it!” Lark hissed. “Stop it, Danny!” and she covered his mouth with her hand.

He pushed her hand away. “Oh,” he sighed, “why do I feel so happy? It’s like I found a long-lost friend or something.”

“Shut up!” She glanced behind her. “You’re giving us away!”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I can’t help it.” He turned to read the inscription on the plaque:

“A witch!” Lark gasped.

The heavy curtains moved slightly, and Danny felt the wind on his neck. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “This must mean . . . it must mean Lord Harleigh, and the others—”

“Are witches!”

“Or think they are. No wonder! No wonder they don’t want us at Blackbriar. It must be like a shrine or something. And my God! that laughter . . .” He seemed to hear it in his head as he looked at the flat, pretty girl. Her eyes watched him as though they knew just what he was thinking, and were laughing. But she couldn’t have been like Lord Harleigh, he thought, she must have been a good witch.

“The doll,” Lark was saying. “It must be some kind of witch thing. No wonder Philippa hated it so. I wonder what it’s suppposed to do?”

Danny held it up to the light. There was no doubt that it was the same doll, only more worn and smooth, as though many other hands had stroked it since the girl had held it in hers. He shivered, but he tightened his fingers on it. “I don’t know what they think it does,” he said, “but whatever it’s for, I’m glad I have it, and not Lord Harleigh. It belongs to me now. Somehow . . . it makes me feel as though I can be as independent as Mary Peachy was.”

Lark was watching him. “You frighten me,” she said, even more softly. “It’s almost as though, since you had it in your room for so long, and you kept hearing that laughter, Mary Peachy might have some kind of power over you.”