Dark on the Other Side (27 page)

“But that’s not what you mean. You are referring to the
belief that some human beings can transform themselves into animal
form, through the application of various magical techniques. The
werewolf is the most familiar to us, because it is a product of
European mythology and is described by the classical authors. In the
East, however, one encounters were-tigers, and in Africa the
supernatural beast may be a hyena or a leopard. The leopard societies
of West Africa, which terrorized whole villages, are well known; there
was a strong element of such a cult in the Mau Mau atrocities, in
Kenya. The mutilations inflicted on the victims of these societies
resemble those made by the claws of a predatory animal, and were done
with artificial instruments designed to resemble claws.

“Of course it’s impossible to separate the supernatural
and pathological elements. A culture with an implicit faith in
lycanthropy produces men who are susceptible to the mania, and an
individual who found it impossible to attain prestige by normal methods
might well turn to lycanthropy as a means of intimidating those he
cannot otherwise control.”

“Good God,” Michael muttered.

“There is, as well, a connection between lycanthropy and
witchcraft,” Galen went on calmly. “The tradition of supernatural
animals is widespread and very ancient. The ability of a witch or
warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers granted by Satan to
his disciples. Often witches made their way to the Sabbath meeting in
animal form. The great black goat was a manifestation of Lucifer. Black
is, of course, the color of evil. And the black dog is not unknown as a
supernatural animal, sometimes representing the warlock and sometimes
Satan himself. The wild dog or wolf like beast is a symbol of the
bestial qualities of the human mind, freed from the bonds of reason and
conscience.”

“A vile slander on animals,” Michael said.

Galen went on, without appearing to hear him.

“You see, I am sure, how the various traditions
mingle—pre-Christian superstitions, perversions of Christian theology,
and a variety of mental aberrations, ranging from paranoia to
autohypnosis and hallucination. But the elements of the classic Western
werewolf legend are explicit. Some werewolves, as in the popular films,
are helpless victims of a curse, involuntary skin-turners. Most are not
innocent; they seek the change by diabolical means and use their animal
form to satisfy bestial desires. According to these accounts, it is the
soul, or astral body, of the man that takes the animal form. The real
body lies in a cataleptic coma, barely breathing; but the astral form
is actual, physical, in that it can inflict pain and death, and feel
pain and death. Any wound inflicted on the animal is reproduced on the
sleeping human body, and drawing the animal’s blood forces it to resume
human shape. In some traditions, the beast can only be killed by a
silver bullet, or by a sword which has been blessed by a priest. When
death occurs, the body of the beast disappears and the body of the
lycanthrope is found with the same wounds that killed the animal.
Intelligent observers have already suspected the werewolf’s human
identity because of such signs as hairy palms and eyebrows that meet in
the middle. He is often strangely affected by the full moon. Has Gordon
any of these traits, Mrs. Randolph?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Linda said disgustedly. “Those are
old wives’ tales.”

Meeting Galen’s gently ironic eye, she began to laugh,
helplessly.

“Oh, dear…that’s probably the craziest thing I’ve said
yet. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I thought I was. No, I think Gordon
belongs to your second category. How was it you phrased it? ‘The
ability of a warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers
granted by Satan to his disciples.’”

“It makes sense,” Galen said. “Given his past history,
his dabbling in demonology as a young man, and his desire for control
over others.”

Linda’s insane desire to laugh broke out again at the
sight of Michael’s stupefied expression.

“Wait a minute,” he gasped. “First you said…And now
you’re saying…”

“You seem to be degenerating,” Galen snapped. “I’m not
telling you what I believe. I am endeavoring to ascertain what Randolph
himself believes.”

“I think he believes it,” Linda said stubbornly. “What I
just said.”

“I don’t know,” Michael said.

Galen rose. He seemed taller; from where Linda sat, on a
low chair by the desk, he seemed to tower over her.

“Maybe we’d better ask him,” he said.

For the last few minutes, Linda had been partially aware
of background noises, but in the immediacy of the conversation she had
paid little attention. Now the meaning of the muffled sounds came home
to her—a doorbell ringing, footsteps down the stairs and along the
hall, the rattle of locks, and the opening and closing of the door. She
sprang to her feet. The footsteps were coming down the hall, toward the
study. Footsteps she knew. Gordon’s steps.

II

She was on her feet, halfway to the window in a mindless
flight, when Galen’s hand caught her arm. His grip was as hard as steel.

“I’m sorry, I meant to warn you,” he said; the even voice
contrasted alarmingly with the intensity of the hard hand on her wrist.
“He came more promptly than I expected. Trust me, Linda. This has to be
done.”

Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Michael.

“Just keep quiet,” he said rapidly. “Don’t look
surprised, at whatever I say, and don’t contradict me or volunteer
anything. If you weren’t half-witted tonight, I wouldn’t have to tell
you—”

There was no time for further speech. The door of the
study opened. Linda had a glimpse of the impassive manservant who had
admitted them to the house; behind him was Gordon.

Without meaning to move, Linda managed to get behind
Galen. He had released his grip on her arm. There was no need for
further constraint, and he must have known it. She was as incapable of
movement as she was of speech.

Gordon’s fine dark eyes moved slowly over the three faces
confronting him.

“My poor little errant wife,” he said, “and—friend. I’ve
never had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr. Rosenberg, but of course
your reputation is well known. It was good of you to call me.”

“Sit down, Mr. Randolph,” Galen said equably. He did not,
Linda noticed, offer the other man his hand.

Gordon took the chair indicated. He seemed perfectly at
ease, except for the weariness in his face—normal in a man who has been
trying to track down an insane wife.

Carefully, he did not look at Linda. He was acting again,
and doing it well, simulating wary concern, pretending he didn’t want
to frighten her…. He looked at Michael instead, and a pathetic shadow
of his old charming smile touched his mouth.

“Sorry, Mike. I’ve been a little off my head the last few
days, or I wouldn’t have thought—what I’ve been thinking. And all the
time you were planning this. I’m eternally in your debt.”

It was a little obvious, even for Gordon. Linda knew
quite well what he was doing, but being able to analyze his methods did
not make her immune. Huddled on the low hassock where Galen’s ruthless
arm had deposited her, she fought a doubt she had thought long
conquered—doubt of Michael, and of the doctor to whom he had brought
her.

Michael said nothing. He was standing, as if he felt more
secure on his feet. His wooden-faced silence did nothing to relieve
Linda’s doubts.

The silence deepened. Galen, who had seated himself
behind his desk, picked up a pen and began scribbling with it. His eyes
intent on the meaningless doodles with which he disfigured the pristine
surface of the desk blotter, he was humming under his breath, and—Linda
realized—flatting badly.

It was a crude trick, but Gordon succumbed. Linda didn’t
see the crack in the barrier at first, it was so small. Only later,
when she recalled the interview, did she appreciate Galen’s overall
strategy.

“I’m grateful to you, too, Doctor,” Gordon said. “But I
don’t quite understand…May I speak to you alone?”

“Why?”

Galen did not look up from his doodling. Critically he
studied a scribble which looked like an arrow, and carefully added
three oblique lines to represent the feather at the end of the shaft.

“To discuss what’s to be done.”

“That concerns all of us,” Galen pointed out. “Your wife
has told me a very disturbing story, Mr. Randolph.”

He looked up; and Linda, who had felt the full effect of
that passionless stare, was not surprised to see Gordon recoil slightly.

“Disturbing?” he repeated.

Galen, who had returned to his drawing, nodded vaguely.

“In what way?”

Galen shook his head and went on doodling. By now the
precise movements of his pen had caught everyone’s attention. Gordon
was almost craning his neck to watch, and the distraction had shaken
his concentration.

“I must insist, Doctor,” he said; his voice was no longer
pleasant.

“On what grounds?”

“Why—because she is my wife. I have the right—”

“You have no right.” Galen’s voice was remote. “Your wife
has placed herself under my care. I called you in to ask you about
certain statements she has made, not to report to you.”

Gordon rose to his feet in a single powerful surge, his
face distorted by the expression few people other than Linda had seen.
Disregarding his instructions, Michael took a step forward, but it was
Galen who stopped Randolph, with a single small gesture of his right
hand, so quickly done that Linda could not have described it.

The effect on Gordon was astounding. He fell back, his
face losing its color. Then, as if compelled, he leaned forward and
looked at the drawing Galen had made.

“The College,” he said, in a choked voice. “You are one—”

“Oh, yes,” Galen said cheerfully.

Because she was sitting by the desk, next to his right
hand, Linda was the only one who saw that hand move. A long index
finger flicked a switch; and all the lights went out.

With the curtains drawn and the door closed, the room was
plunged into primeval blackness. Linda heard the long, shaken intake of
breath that came from Gordon; it went on so long it seemed impossible
that human lungs could hold so much air. Then it burst out, in a sound
that shocked the brain and senses as it affronted the ears. She heard a
heavy chair fall, and the rush of something through the dark, and she
dropped to the floor, crouching, for fear his blind rush would bring
him to her. He found the door, after an interval that seemed
interminable; the light from the hall was yellow and comforting,
silhouetting his tall body. Then he was gone. The front door slammed,
waking echoes from the lovely crystal chandelier in the hall.

The lights came on again.

“Hmph,” Galen said.

Crouching on the floor behind his chair, Linda was busy
shaking. A pair of hands caught her by the shoulders and hauled her to
her feet. She stared into Michael’s face.

“You all right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but dumped her
unceremoniously on the hassock, and wheeled on the figure pensively
posed behind the desk.

“What College, you congenital liar?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Galen said placidly.

“Another lie…The drawing. What is it?”

Galen stirred and stretched.

“The drawing, like the gesture I made, is an invention. A
meaningless hodgepodge of symbols and Hebrew letters. I regret to say
that my years of Hebrew school are far behind me, and my knowledge of
the Cabala is even vaguer. The effect on Mr. Randolph was interesting,
though, wasn’t it?”

Michael regarded him with no admiration whatever.

“Of the two of you, I almost think I prefer Randolph. The
College, I suppose, is an equally imaginary group of—what? Adepts in
magic, squatting on top of Mount Everest thinking about the universe?
You deliberately let him think…”

“I let him think what he wanted to think. And I found out
what I wanted to know.” He turned a contemplative stare on Linda,
huddled on the hassock. “You were right. I felt sure that you were, but
I had to check. And implant a certain useful suggestion.”

Michael picked up the chair Gordon had overturned in his
flight, and sat down. Under its drawn pallor, his face held the first
gleam of hope Linda had seen for hours.

“He thinks you’re a powerful warlock yourself. That isn’t
all you learned, is it?”

“I wondered if you’d notice.”

“I was blind not to see it before.”

“When you described his reaction to the power failure in
your apartment, I wondered. Knowing that his concern for Mrs. Randolph
was only problematical, I suspected another, more immediate cause for
his panic.”

“He’s afraid of the dark,” Michael said. Linda saw him
shiver, and felt the same chill. She would never hear that word again
without remembering.

“Yes. Significant, in view of the poetic words of your
young friend at the college.” Galen’s voice changed. “Damn you for
mentioning it, Michael; I should be immune to that kind of verbal
magic, but when I think of what that poor devil sees, when the lights
go out…”

“It isn’t only the dark Gordon fears.” For once Linda was
immune to that kind of magic. “He’s afraid of flying. He doesn’t drive
a car. He quit smoking.”

“No contact sports,” Michael muttered. “Even
then…Swimming? Lots of other people around, spectators, competitors,
just in case…”

“I believe that Elliott Jacques is correct when he states
that this particular anxiety comes to its peak during the crisis of
middle life. Randolph is about forty, isn’t he? I’ve seen a number of
such cases, since the realization often produces symptoms which require
psychotherapeutic treatment—psychosomatic illness, insomnia,
claustrophobia, to mention only a few. Randolph’s reactive symptoms are
new to me; but they have a dreadful logic of their own. He fears, not
only the dark, but the ultimate darkness. He is afraid of dying.”