Late at Night (12 page)

Lynn was more cheerful today. There was still an air of obvious tension between her and Everson, but she was clearly making an effort not to let whatever strain her relationship with the older man might be going through ruin the rest of the weekend. Everson was giving her all his attention, letting her hog the spotlight and play hostess. He was quite charming towards his younger lady love, so charming that the friction between the two of them seemed to be melting away as breakfast progressed.

Andrea had not slept well—how could she on
this
island—but she found her spirits reviving and her mind becoming more alert in spite of it.

That’s what a good breakfast and lively companions could do for you. Funny thing about Ernie, though; he seemed in a daze, had barely acknowledged her when she had said hello. And there she had been trying to be pleasant, trying to make up for the freakiness of the night before. Oh well, perhaps it was too late. Perhaps she had lost his attention for good. She wasn’t about to cry over it.

Cynthia sipped her coffee, wiped her lips with a napkin, and looked Andrea right in the eye. “Did you and Mr. Thesinger find what you were looking for last night?” From the lascivious grin on Cynthia’s mouth it was clear she was not referring to the shipwreck. Andrea ignored her friend’s innuendo and replied, “Yes. But I wouldn’t let Ernie get near it. It was too foggy out. We came right back.”

“Hmmm,” Cynthia said slyly to the rest of the table. “Did anyone hear the two of them come in? Was anyone still
up
at that hour?”

“Cynthia,” Andrea scolded, smiling in spite of herself. “It wasn’t that late. Everyone went to bed early and you know it. There was nobody up when we got back.”

“Then we have only your word for it that the two of you didn’t sleep on the beach and sneak in here to your beds at dawn.”

Andrea shook her head. She looked over at Ernie to see how he was reacting—she thought he’d be blushing bright red now—but he was still in that odd mood of his. He ate his food listlessly, did not join in the conversation. He really must be exhausted. Andrea knew she wouldn’t get any help from that corner. But before Cynthia could go on with her verbal badinage, Anton made a pronouncement.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m quite anxious to explore the island this afternoon. I’m particularly interested in seeing the ruins of the old house. The one that’s still standing, that is. Perhaps we can even go inside.”

Everson speared a sausage with his fork. “I don’t see why not. As long as we’re careful.”

There was a little cough from the end of the table, and Betty, red-faced from the exertion, said, “Anton and I were talking about it last night. We have a mutual love for haunted houses, things like that.” She looked down at her plate shyly. When nobody spoke, she added, “When I was a little girl I used to love going to the abandoned homes in the neighborhood. We had two or three of them. Huge monsters that nobody wanted to buy, just left to fall apart and fill up with weeds.” Each sentence was punctuated by a pained little smile, as if she was asking for approval before continuing. “I wasn’t very brave. Friends of mine used to enter through broken windows and look around, and when they told me it was safe they’d open the front door and let me in. I’d never go in unless I knew it was safe. I—”

“That’s how I felt about the water,” Cynthia said. “I still don’t think it’s safe.” She lit a cigarette, puffed, unconcerned about the discomfort the smoke might cause the others. Betty had not been through with her story, but that didn’t matter to Cynthia. Andrea was struck by the difference between Cynthia and Betty. Cynthia’s astonishing insensitivity; Betty’s crippling sensitivity. Cynthia rambled on about her first experiences with swimming and handsome lifeguards. Jerry listened with rapture to every word, while Gloria nibbled at her toast and said nothing. It was an effort for Betty to say something—everyone knew that—and here she’d built up her courage and Cynthia wouldn’t even let her finish. How much time had it taken Betty to pull herself together, to fortify herself to speak for so long? No one who hadn’t been shy in childhood as Andrea had been could ever conceive of what some people had to go through inside just to have the confidence to pass a simple remark.

Andrea tuned Cynthia out and looked over at Ernie again. What was the matter with him anyway? He had hardly said a word during the whole meal.
She
was tired, too, but not to the point of catatonia. He looked worse than exhausted—he looked
disturbed,
preoccupied by something terrible.

Cynthia was through with her swimming story. Anton and Lynn were now trying to convince Gloria to go with them on the walk to the main house, but Gloria was not at all enamored of the idea. “I’d much rather sit outside and feel that nice warm sun on my face. Walking through woods has never been my strong point. I’m much more the sitter type.”

“You could use the exercise,” Jerry said, not unkindly.

“We shouldn’t force her,” Cynthia said with surprising conviction. “If Glo doesn’t want to go she can stay and watch the fort. It’s just an old house anyway, Glo, you won’t be missing anything. Besides, think of all the bugs out there.”

“Bugs,” Jerry laughed. “That did it. Gloria has shit fits when she sees a cockroach.”

“Disgusting little creatures,” Gloria said as she suddenly squirmed in her seat. “Let’s not even talk about them. You say there are bugs out there in that jungle?” she asked Everson.

The lawyer smiled patiently. “There are usually bugs outdoors, Gloria. There’s nothing we can do about it. And it’s just a forest, not a jungle.”

“Well, I could have sworn I heard a bobcat screaming last night, out in the woods.”

“I heard a scream coming from right in this house,” Cynthia said, her eyes opening wide from the memory. “I thought I must have been dreaming.”

“I think I heard something, too,” Anton sniffed, scraping the last of his scrambled eggs from his plate. “Nearly startled the life out of me.”

“Awww,” Jerry quipped. “It was probably just Gloria finding a bug in her bed.” Gloria glared at him playfully and snickered.

Andrea did not remember the scream—how could she distinguish it from the inner screams within her own mind—but she noticed that Ernie had perked up a bit at the talk of it. “It came from the first floor, I’m sure of it,” Anton continued. “But when it stopped abruptly I figured one of the servants was playing a joke. It still was rather early if I recall. I meant to check my watch but it was on the dresser and I was too tired to get up and take a look.”

“Did you hear anything, Ernie?” Lynn asked the writer. He shook his head, mumbled, looked as if he hadn’t heard her. Then Mrs. Plushing came into the room, and Everson told her what some of the others had heard. As usual, Mrs. Plushing knew what had happened all right.

“Oh that. You heard it, did you? I’m so sorry, Mr. Everson, and all of you, for the disturbance.”

“Well, what was it, woman?” Everson snapped.

Margaret was used to his ways. “It was Joanne, this time. It seems she
saw
something last night, just like Emily did. Some kind of ghost. Of course, I told her it was nonsense. But she was scared out of her wits.”

Andrea looked over to see if Ernie had heard. It seemed the spirit of Mary Lou Winters was a restless one.

“Woke me up out of a sound sleep,” Margaret continued. “I turned on the light, and Joanne said the ghost disappeared. Some kind of dead girl, she said, all horrible-looking. Climbing to the top of her bunkbed. Anyway, she wouldn’t go back to sleep unless I let her get in bed with me. It’s a wonder I’m awake at all today, what with her shivering and moaning and stealing the covers for the rest of the night.”

“Well, is she all right?” Lynn asked.

“Oh yes, she’s fine now, miss. Emily was woken up, too, but she went right back to sleep without any trouble. Today both of the girls are convinced they just had some bad dreams, hallucinations, brought on by their own imaginations. Young girls, you know how they are.”

“I’m a grown man,” Anton said. “And even I’m starting to get goosebumps.”

The rest of the discussion was lost as Ernie suddenly jumped to his feet, a crazed and frightened expression in his eyes. He shouted “My God!” and took off to his room in a flash.

“What the lord is the matter with
him?”
Mrs. Plushing asked.

Chapter 22

The book? Where is the book?

Ernie had overturned the cot, ripped off the mattress, searched on the floor, in his baggage and in the trunk, in virtually every nook and cranny, but the novel was nowhere to be found. He had raced back outside to look at every title on the bookshelf, but
Late at Night
simply wasn’t there.

Could I have dreamt it all?
he wondered.

He had been awakened by the sounds of the others climbing down the stairs for breakfast, by Mrs. Plushing’s whistling as she puttered around the dining room setting the table. He could smell coffee and bacon, and responded to those lovely aromas by getting out of bed. But he had been so tired, so doggone, unnaturally tired. There was something nagging at him in the back of his mind, something he couldn’t pinpoint, something he had to tell Andrea. But he simply could not remember what it was.

All through breakfast it had worried him. Then they’d started talking about a scream. Yes, he had heard a scream. Instinctively, before anyone had told him, he had
known
it was one of the housekeepers screaming, but he’d hadn’t known how he knew. Something started to come together in the deepest recesses of his brain, started to poke its way out into his conscious mind. Then Mrs. Plushing had come in to tell her story, and it had all come rushing back to him.

The book.

He had rushed in here to find it, to see if it was real, but it had disappeared. He had looked everywhere. Either someone had taken it or it had never existed. He might never know for certain. It was so hard to think in this mental fog even now he wasn’t sure if he had actually sat in bed reading it, or if he had dreamt the whole thing: finding it, falling asleep, hearing the scream. The scream, at least, had been legitimate. But as for everything else, who knows?

Yet for a moment there he had been so sure.

Perhaps he had only dreamed about the book; perhaps he’d experienced a psychic phenomena known as precognition. Maybe everyone in this island was in danger. Perhaps the book had been a warning in disguise. Or maybe last night there really
had
been a book: an omen, a prophecy, a warning in a tangible,
physical
form. Ernie would have to ask Andrea if such things could exist. Perhaps when its job had been over, the book had ceased to exist, returning to the netherland that had spawned it. The book, the substance or ectoplasm that formed it, had dissipated while he slept.

But why? Why would such a thing happen? Why would a warning take such a form? The book had seemed so real, so real in every sense.

There was no point telling the others about this until he had a chance to really think it over, to sort out fact and fiction and remember if there had actually been a book or not. The first thing he would do is get Andrea alone and tell her everything that had happened.

But something still bothered him. If that book had been for real, if it had actually provided a peek into the future, then that meant that there wasn’t much time. Ernie remembered only the vaguest details; nothing specific, no names or places. Just that the book was about him and his comrades and took place on this island. Just that it promised horrible fates for all of them.

Just that the slaughter would begin very soon.

Chapter 23

It took about twenty minutes to get to the main house, their little group stumbling over roots and through weedy patches, slapping at mosquitoes, and pointing collectively into the trees whenever a pleasant whistle would indicate the presence of a bird.

It was hot today—further inland there were fewer cooling breezes. Cynthia wished she hadn’t worn her hot pants. She also wore a flimsy pink blouse that was tied below her breasts. She was showing plenty of skin, and her legs and arms and stomach were rapidly turning into feeding grounds for carnivorous insects. She had one thing to be grateful for. Gloria had stayed behind. That gave her a chance to get to know Jerry better without the old cow hovering around them. It was now or never. That moose hung on tightly at all other times.

It was a sunny day and the island was truly beautiful. The path to the main house was now overgrown, home to thistles, orchids, and sundew —as well as millions upon millions of crawling, flying, and creeping bugs. Cynthia felt something light upon her neck and swatted it with her palm.

“Yechh, got it,” she said, looking at the black mess smeared across her hand. Jerry smiled in commiseration. “Wish I had some Raid,” he said. “Funny no one thought to bring some bug spray.”

“Who expected so many bugs this time of year?” Cynthia whined. “It’s not even summer time yet. Officially, that is.”

Anton laughed. “My dear, I’ve even seen flies in winter.” Cynthia smirked—
I bet—
and continued slapping her bare arms and waist, while Anton turned back to his companion Betty. Everyone was pairing off, Cynthia noticed. Andrea and Ernie were far ahead of the others, steering everyone in the right direction, or so they hoped, by making sure no one strayed off what was left of the passage—as if
they
knew which way to go more than the others did. They were deep in conversation even as they acted as trail guides. Something was brewing between those two, and Cynthia admitted to herself that she was jealous.

Lynn and John were talking together, too. Probably patching up whatever rips they’d made while quarreling. John was as stoical as usual, taking all the bugs and the weeds and sun in stride. Lynn seemed a tiny bit excited—this was her island after all, and she had never seen the old Burrows mansion—but was still more subdued than usual. The bugs didn’t seem to bother her.