Read Bradley, Marion Zimmer - Shadowgate 04 Online
Authors: Heartlight (v2.1)
Apparently
there'd been some poltergeist phenomena involved in the breakup. Oddly enough,
Leslie was treating a classical poltergeist
—
a teen-aged girl
—
at the same time she was
experiencing her own troubles, but flying wineglasses and Kleenex boxes,
whatever the cause, worried her far less than the ceaseless ringing of the
doorbell and telephone.
"And
there's never anyone there
—
and the phone rings when it's off the hook as well as on,
and disconnecting the doorbell only inconveniences the
—
the living," Leslie
said raggedly.
The
incidents of clairvoyance were increasing as well
—
Nick Beckworth was more
pragmatic than his lawyer brother, and had called her several times for advice
on cases, including a recent child abduction.
"And
the poor woman was half-mad with worry, but this time the child was safe and
well
—
off
with her father. Only what if she hadn't been, and I'd seen that?" Leslie
demanded.
"It
must have been very frightening," Claire said gently.
Are you the one,
Leslie? Will you take up the work Alison had to leave unfinished?
Leslie
smiled with sudden wicked humor. "Bravo. Perfect nondirective counseling
technique."
Claire
had laughed, and admitted that she was taking psychology classes at SF State, and
working as a counselor as well. Talk turned to the subject of Alison Margrave.
While Leslie could not dismiss the evidence of her own senses, acknowledging
one's own psychic gifts was a far cry from accepting the whole world of the
Unseen. The possible reality of after-death survival baffled her
—
it seemed too extreme, too
unreal.
Claire
told Leslie a little about Alison
—
wanting neither to prejudice
her against what was happening here in the house by telling her too much, nor
wishing to tell Leslie things which she was obviously not ready to hear. While
it was true that Leslie Barnes was a psychic, she was a highly reluctant one.
But
that's how it always is, isn't it? It's only in movies or bad books that people
greet the appearance of the Sixth Sense with delight. It's a frightening thing.
But Leslie needs to be pushed on as fast as she'll go. What's happening here
seems so pointed. What if it
isn't
Alison who's behind all these
goings-on
—
the flying crockery, the phone, the doorbell?
And
if it was not, what other power had the strength and the determination to pass
the barriers of this house which had been dedicated to the Light for more than
half a century? Claire only hoped that Leslie wouldn't be able to pick up her
growing unease.
"There's
something wrong with the garage, too," Leslie was saying, "but the
house was always a
—
a haven. Until this morning. A Wedgewood plate
—
it's a family heirloom; it
was my grandmother's
—
came flying down off the wall like a, a
—
like a flying saucer!"
Leslie giggled nervously.
"May
I see the office?" Claire asked.
Alison
—
if it is you
—
what in the name of Heaven
are you doing?
Claire
paused at the door of Alison's study. She felt nothing beyond the quiet and
peace that she had always associated with Alison's home, though it was strange
to see new furniture
—
an old, battered wooden desk, a chair and table, and an
endearingly kitschy cuckoo clock
—
in Alison's quiet office.
It
is Leslie's office now. We must all let Alison go,
Claire reminded herself.
After
first asking permission, she picked up the ornamental plate, which was still
where it had fallen this morning. She braced herself, but she felt nothing.
"I
don't sense anything wrong with it," she said mildly, "and I think
I'd know if there was any actual infesting energy. . . ."
She
did her best to explain as much as she could, but she could sense Leslie's
growing tension as she did, and finally dropped the subject. Colin would not
thank her for making an enemy of Leslie
—
and it would be a damned bad
turn to do the woman herself, when she was reaching out to them for help.
"You
said there had been disturbances in other parts of the house
—
could I see the window that
won't stay shut?" Claire asked.
As
they stepped out into the hall again, Leslie's younger sister had begun to
practice, and great crashing chords echoed from the walls, much as they had
when Alison was in her prime.
Leslie
led her up the stairs, showing her (to Claire's secret amusement; Leslie was so
gravely solemn about the whole thing) the pentagrams inscribed beneath every
window and above every door.
"I
set the wards on this house myself," Claire said, "when Alison was in
the hospital after her first big stroke."
The
one that had come almost a year after Simon's accident. She remembered sitting
in the hospital with Alison as she had sat with Simon, and Alison's
determination then that Simon should not have Greenhaven. It was only then that
Claire had realized how deep into the Shadow Simon must have gone, to set
Alison against him so unyieldingly.
Somehow,
it was no surprise to discover that the window that Leslie complained would
not stay shut was the one in Simon's old room. Now it was Emily's room
—
Claire could feel that it
was occupied, even if Leslie had not told her
—
but without the usual litter
of teenage occupation. Emily Barnes, it seemed, was as compulsively neat as
other girls her age were messy. Claire placed her hand on the sill, trying to
sense what had passed this threshold, but once more there was nothing.
"The
window is certainly unguarded," she said. "But I don't have the sense
that there is anything wrong here. It's neutral, if anything. But you said
something about a cat?"
"A white cat. Frodo said it was
Alison's cat," Leslie answered, a little defensively.
"See?
It's not my cat. It's nothing to do with me."
Claire filled in
mentally. She smiled a little. How it must annoy Leslie to find herself
presenting such a classic textbook case of denial!
But if one could control
one's instinctive reaction to things, it wouldn't be instinctive, I suppose.
Still. . .
"Alison
always had white cats," Claire explained. "Once one got out before
she could neuter it, and she gave me one of the kittens. Mehitabel was the
first pet I'd ever had, and I've had cats ever since. I know that Alison had
half a dozen cats at one time, but when she knew she was failing, she found
homes for most of them. ..." But Claire already doubted that the white cat
plaguing Leslie was one of Alison's legacies gone feral. She could check with
Kathleen Carmody to be sure, but it wasn't likely Kathleen had failed to
discharge her final obligation to her friend.
"I
can reestablish the wards. Of course, ideally, the whole house should be !
cleansed and resealed, and you should do it yourself. It will be much more effective
that way."
"And
that would keep the cat out?" Leslie said dubiously.
Claire
had to admit that it probably would
—
assuming the animal wasn't
simply an opportunistic stray after all
—
but declared that it seemed
like overkill to her. She had a sense that there was something about the cat
that Leslie had not mentioned yet
—
something that she had been
skating closer to each time she'd brought herself to discuss what was happening
here in the house.
"I
think this particular cat met a messy end," Leslie said reluctantly.
Bingo!
Poor Leslie
—
what can possibly be happening here?
Leslie
led Claire back downstairs
—
Emily was still practicing, this time a piece that Claire
recognized, something by Mussorgsky
—
and out into the garden.
Rainbow
and Emily had been working in it almost every weekend, and it was beginning to
flourish once more, losing the mangy, moth-eaten look it had possessed after
Alison's death. Leslie crossed the open space, leading Claire toward the little
garage that Alison had remodeled into a workroom when she'd started operating
with a group once more. Kathleen's sister Betty had talked about there being
something dreadful out here, but she'd never gotten around to asking either
Claire or Colin for help.
And
so Claire was completely unprepared for what she felt when she stepped over the
threshold.
Cold.
. . darkness . . . hunger and despair. A pain so vast, so wracking, that utter
(
foulness from which the healthy soul would have recoiled in horror
became unnoticeable, became a tool, became the profane medium in which some mad
artist worked. . . .
"There
is certainly something very wrong in here," Claire said faintly, trying
to block out that wordless howl of despair that filled her senses. "I
don't know what it is, but it's horrible
—
horrible!"
Leslie
said something. Her cheerful, unconcerned voice grated on Claire's . abraded
nerves
—
couldn't
she feel the horror of this place? Horror accomplished
—
and horror yet to come. The
walls vibrated with a child's terror, and the smell of blood was everywhere, as
if Claire herself were bathed in it. ...
Claire
turned and pushed blindly past Leslie. Reaching the open air of the garden was
like being able to breathe once more: Claire sucked in deep lungfuls of the
herb-scented air and hoped she wouldn't faint. She felt as nauseated as if she
had bathed in
—
had
drunk
—
raw sewage.
How
could this have happened? How could Alison's lovely dedicated Sanctuary have
been so profaned? Certainly Betty had not done it, nor either of the other two
families that had tried to live here. Claire thought of the man who had died,
the young mother who had committed suicide here. This was what they'd felt in
their last moments, she was sure of it. She could not believe that this aura,
the disturbances at Greenhaven, were anything to do with Alison
—
no matter how angry she
was, Alison could not do this to innocents.
But
Simon could. It was Simon who had killed one of Alison's cats years before,
Simon who now preached the gospel of black magic, blood sacrifice, and the
purging of society of those with no value to it.
Claire
said something
—
she did not know what
—
to Leslie, and the other
woman took her arm and led her back toward the kitchen.
Did
Leslie know what Simon had become? Claire searched her face anxiously, but saw
no sign of such terrible knowledge there.
Over
another cup of tea, Claire did her best to explain about Simon to Leslie, but
saw to her growing dismay that every word she spoke had somehow been countered
by Simon beforehand. Leslie would not hear a word against him, nor would she
even agree that there was such a thing as Black Magick, as if the discipline
that could produce such undoubted effects could not have its means twisted to
evil ends.