The worst thing was, though, that it seemed to be coming from here, from right inside this bedroom with nobody in it.
She heard a noise on the staircase. 'Craig!' she managed to call out. 'Craig, can you hear me? I'm up here, on the top floor!'
There was no reply. She hesitated, her fist clenched, her heart palpitating more furiously than ever. She had never felt so ridiculous in her life; but then she had never felt so frightened, either - at least of something, or somebody, not even there. There was no such thing as ghosts. She simply didn't believe in them. People died and when they were dead they were gone for ever. The sobbing was more muted now, and when she listened to it more intently she realised that it could be the wind, it must be the wind. It had freshened up in the wake of the storm, and it was probably sobbing down the clogged-up fireplace.
All the same, she still felt deeply unnerved. The bedroom with the pale blue carpet and the smeary windows disturbed her more than any room that she had ever been in before. It felt like a sickroom, a room which its occupant would never leave alive; a room in which there was nothing to do but watch the long days go by, the shadows on the chimney stacks; rain, fog, winter sunshine. It was a room of unbearable pain and utter desperation.
Effie started to go back to find Craig, to bring him up here. Craig could show her for sure that she was imagining things. But after only two or three steps, she stopped.
Don't. Don't call him up here, whatever you do.
She frowned. Why did she think that? What was wrong with calling him up here?
Just don't.
She turned back and stared at the half-open door. All she could see was the fireplace and the mark on the carpet where the chest-of-drawers had once stood.
Am I thinking for myself or is somebody else thinking for me?
Don't call him up here.
Why? Because he won't believe me? Because he'll make fun of me?
Because you'll regret it.
Effie cautiously made her way back along the corridor. She felt like turning around, just to make sure that she wasn't being followed, but she kept telling herself, it's empty, the bedroom's empty, there's nobody in it, just the wind.
She climbed over the tiles and the broken rafters, and she was almost back at the staircase when a man in a dark suit appeared from the corridor that led off to her right, crossed the landing, and started to hurry downstairs.
Effie called, 'Pardon me!' and ran to the head of the stairs.
The man paused at the turn in the stairs and looked up at her. The stained-glass window gave his face a sallow look, as if he were Italian or Greek. His glossy hair was brushed straight back from his forehead. His eyes were very dark and deepset, and oddly blurry. In fact, Effie found it quite difficult to focus on his face at all, as if she were shortsighted.
'Pardon me, sir, do you think you could help me?' she said. 'You see, I thought I heard a sound like a woman crying in one of the bedrooms here, and-'
The man stared at her for one moment longer, and then continued down the stairs at the same brisk pace. She heard him cross the second-storey landing and carry on down to the first floor below.
Effie was stupefied. Hadn't he heard her? He must have heard her. Why hadn't he said anything, or even acknowledged her?
Slowly, she descended the stairs. As she did so, she heard Craig and Norman noisily climbing up from the first floor, talking about heating-pumps.
'Effie!' said Craig. 'We were wondering where you'd wandered off to!'
'You have to be pretty careful in a property like this,' Norman cautioned her, tossing the hair from out of his eyes. 'Some of the flooring joists are rotten, especially where the rain's been coming in. You could drop right through from the attic to the cellar. There's been some termite infestation, too. One or two of these beams look like solid oak, like, but you could punch a hole in them with your finger.'
Effie said, 'Who was that man?'
'Who was what man, sweetheart?'
'That man who just came down the stairs.'
Craig looked baffled. 'We haven't seen anybody coming down the stairs, have we, Norman?'
'You must have done! He must have passed you on the way! A man in a dark suit.'
Craig shook his head. 'We haven't seen anybody. Really.'
'Maybe it was just a trick of the light,' Norman suggested, trying to be helpful. 'These stained-glass windows, you know, they throw all kinds of weird shadows and all.'
'He wasn't a trick of the light. He was as solid as you are.'
'Maybe he went off down one of these corridors.'
'He didn't. I'm sure he didn't. I heard him go right down to the first floor. I heard his footsteps!'
'Then he must have walked right through us.'
'What did I tell you?' grinned Norman. 'The place is haunted.'
Craig put his arm around Effie's waist and gave her a squeeze. 'Come on… it was probably some bum who's been squatting here. You remember the old Regency Hotel on Lexington Avenue? They found winos and derelicts in practically every room when they demolished that. It had more people in it when it was closed than when it was open.'
'Craig…' Effie protested, 'this wasn't a derelict. He had a smart suit, and his hair was brushed, and... well, he just didn't look like a derelict. Besides, derelict or not, where did he go?'
Norman said, 'Don't worry, if there is anybody squatting here, our less-than-friendly local police chief can soon clear them out.'
'You shouldn't have come up here anyhow,' Craig told her.
She was right on the tip of telling him about the sobbing that she had heard, when she felt a deep wave of resistance run through her. It wasn't as strong as a proper electric shock; but it gave her a cold crawling sensation all the way across her shoulders, and an odd feeling of nausea, as if she had stepped off a carousel.
Don't let him come up here. You'll regret it.
'Did you see any of the bedrooms?' asked Craig.
She said, 'Most of the roof has come down. They're not really worth looking at.'
'I can use my imagination.'
'They're full of tiles and rubbish like that. You really shouldn't bother.'
'But Effie... if we're going to buy this place-'
'What do you mean, if we're going to buy this place? There's no question of us buying this place! It would ruin us!'
'I could sell my share of the partnership.'
Effie stared at him. 'I don't believe what I'm hearing.
'You've worked yourself half to death for that partnership. Now you're going to sell it, for a rotten overblown dump like this?'
'I think Mr. Van Buren prefers, like, "imposing character dwelling, with considerable scope for improvement",' Norman put in.
'It's a rotten overblown dump and that's all there is to it. And if you even think about buying it, I'll- I'll-'
Craig was smiling. She couldn't believe how warmly he was smiling. He took her in his arms, right then and there on the staircase, and he kissed her forehead and he kissed her hair, and he said to her, very softly, so that Norman couldn't hear him, 'What if it made me happy? What if it made me really, really happy?'
Effie looked up at him. There was something in his eyes which she couldn't understand at all. It was triumph, almost. A look of inspiration; a lighted-up look. She hadn't seen such obvious strength in him since his accident, and she had never seen such warmth.
'Just a quick look at the bedrooms,' he said, and this time she didn't resist him.
He stood for a long time in front of the stained-glass window.
'I like it,' he nodded. 'I really like it.'
'Do you know what it means -
Gut ist der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser
?' asked Norman.
'Something about sleep being good?'
'That's right. Sleep is good, but death is better. Goethe, or Heine. One of those.'
'Is this some kind of allegory, this window?' asked Effie. 'Who knows? Don't sleep standing up. Don't face the wrong way when you're having your portrait painted. Could be anything.'
They climbed up the last flight to the bedrooms. Effie was beginning to feel even more nauseated, and the palms of her hands prickled with nervousness. Supposing the sobbing started up again? Logically, she wanted Craig to hear it. Maybe it would help to put him off the idea of buying Valhalla, or dampen his enthusiasm, at the very least. On the other hand, she desperately didn't want him to hear it. She couldn't think of any logical explanation for feeling so anxious. In spite of what she had heard, and in spite of what she had seen, she really couldn't bring herself to believe in ghosts. But she did believe in atmospheres-, and she did believe in ill fortune. If she spilled salt, she always threw a pinch over her left shoulder; she never walked under ladders; and she never looked at the new moon through glass.
Her mother always said that the house in Briarcliff Manor where she lived with her sister Rhoda was 'a happy place', as if there could be 'unhappy places' too.
'Roof's pretty bad here,' Norman commented, as they crunched along the corridor. 'But, you know, it's fixable, like I said, for a price.'
Craig climbed awkwardly over the tiles and the rafters and the squirrels' nest. He looked out over the distant hills and then he looked back again and now he appeared disconsolate.
'It's worse than I thought it was going to be.'
Norman said, 'One point seven-five should cover it, though. Like, give or take fifty, depending what you find.'
'The question is - is it worth it?' asked Effie. Craig was standing right next to the half-open door of the bedroom, the bedroom where the sobbing had been coming from, and she felt an inexplicable twinge of panic.
Don't let him in, you'll regret it. Don't let him in.
Norman gave her a quick, disapproving glance. Behind his hair and his glasses, it was difficult to tell what point he was trying to make. Maybe he was frowning like that because he wanted the job of restoring Valhalla to its former magnificence, with all the profit he could make from timbering and tiling and pest-control. On the other hand, maybe he wasn't so mercenary after all. Maybe he could sense that there was a bad atmosphere here; unhappy memories and bad luck; and rooms from which his mother, the psychic sensitive, stayed well away.
Craig looked further down the corridor; and he was just about to climb back over the slates when he said, 'What about this bedroom here? Is this pretty typical?'
'This is one of the guest bedrooms, yes,' said Norman. He sounded nervous, as if he would rather be anywhere else but here. 'Take a look inside, if you want to. This is one of the bedrooms that-'
'Yes?'
'Well, this is one of the bedrooms.'
Craig pushed the door wider, and stepped inside. He paced to the window, and looked out. Then he paced around the carpet. He ended up right in the centre of the stain that looked like a goat's head.
'Well?' asked Effie.
He was standing with his back to her. All the same, she could see that he was thinking; that he was listening, almost - either to what the house was telling him, or his inner heart. Or maybe both.
He lowered his head. His fists were clenched and he was quivering.
'Craig?' she said. 'Is everything all right?'
He turned around. His eyes were wide and his face was bright. 'This is it,' he told her, in a voice that was high-pitched with exhilaration. 'This is absolutely it.'
'You want to buy it,' said Effie, thinking,
Oh God, I knew that he would.
He nodded, again and again. 'We have to buy it. It's all here, everything. I can't describe it. It's like all of my life fits into place.' He stepped out of the room and took hold of her arms. 'This house is like a map, do you understand what I mean?'
'A map? No, I'm sorry.'
'Norman, do you understand what I mean? It's like the house was built as a model of my life. The entrance-hall, the ballroom, the library… Valhalla is me.'
'Well, Mr. Bellman,' said Norman. 'I don't know what to say.'
'Say you'll restore it, that's all.'
Norman looked at Effie, and again she had the strongest feeling that he was trying to tell her something, but she couldn't understand what it was.
Then he said, without taking his eyes off her, 'Sure, I'll restore it, if that's what you want. I'd love to. But it could need more than restoration, couldn't it, don't you think?'
Craig ignored him, and started to walk further down the corridor. 'Let's go see the master bedroom, shall we? That's what I really want to see.'
Effie stayed behind. She looked into the bedroom with the stained blue carpet and the rag-cluttered fireplace and she knew that there was something badly wrong here. The sobbing - well, she could have imagined the sobbing. The man on the stairs, he could have been a derelict. But it was the thick and terrible atmosphere that frightened her the most. Throughout Valhalla, the very air that she inhaled seemed to be denser, and pungent with antiseptic, as if somebody had committed the most hideous of all imaginable acts, and had been scrubbing and scrubbing in a futile attempt to expunge it.
Valhalla was filled from attic to cellars with the unbearable tension of unforgiven sin.
Effie was about to follow Craig and Norman when she glimpsed a quick dark shadow crossing the landing behind her. Without a word, she scrambled back over the heaps of broken tiles, until she reached the head of the stairs. The same man was standing halfway down, staring up at her. His face was unfocused, his eyes were black as smudges of ink.