Late at Night (25 page)

“I dumped
you,
Anton,” Lynn shouted, near tears. “Have you forgotten? And you’ve never gotten over it, have you?”

“ Why
did you ‘dump’ me? Because I wouldn’t put up with your ridiculous—”

“Stop it!”
Andrea’s voice was so loud and forceful that even Ernie paused in his reading to see what she had to say. Andrea went over to Lynn and took her by the shoulders. She looked for a minute as if she were about to tear their hostess’s arms off. “Lynn,” she said, slowly, deliberately. “You never told me you’d become
that
interested in the supernatural, Lynn. Never. Now I want an honest answer. Are you behind the things—the things that have been happening here? The disappearances, the deaths. Lynn—”

“Leave me alone.”

Anton was getting jumpier by the minute. “What deaths?”

Andrea shook Lynn back and forth. “Are you the one, Lynn? Is it you? Tell me, tell me or so help me, I’ll—”

Andrea was saved from further violence by the sound of Ernie’s verbal reactions to the section of the book he was reading. “God—according to this, John is the next one who’s going to die!”

Lynn pulled away from Andrea, her face twisted with confusion and fear. “John? Something’s going to happen to John.
What,
Ernie?

Tell me
what!”

Ernie turned to her and was about to answer her question … when all the lights went out!

Chapter 43

It worked!

Get the book. Get the book now while everyone’s confused. Get the book.
A bump. An outcry. Someone toppling over.
Careful, careful— the lights won’t stay out for long; it’s taxing to drain away the electrical energy this way. You don’t want to be caught among them when the lights go on, not this way.

Someone’s touching you; shake them away, knock them over. Don’t let them stop you.

Got it! Yes, this is it, I can tell. This is the book at long last.

Now, over this way, past that shadow—
rush them—
don’t let anyone get in your way; just take the book, hide it where no one can find it. Even if they question me, search me, they won’t be able to find the book.

It’s a strain; if you drop your guard the lights will go on too soon—hurry, hurry—keep your mind on the lights while you run, run, run, run…

You’ve got the book you’ve got the book you’ve got the book you’ve got the book …

Now I’m going to make them all pay.

All of them.

* * *

The lights came back on.

Andrea was lying on the floor, rubbing her elbow and grimacing.

Lynn was leaning back against the wall, white as a sheet, her body shivering.

Anton had somehow gotten over to the bathroom door in the darkness.

Ernie stood in the center of the room, where he had been before the lights had gone out.

His hands were empty.

Anton was the nearest to Andrea. “Are you all right, my dear?” He gave her his hand and pulled her to her feet.

“No thanks to you,” she said. “You knocked me right to the ground, Anton. Where were you running to anyway?”

“I wasn’t running anywhere. I thought I was heading for the door, and some light, but apparently my inner radar wasn’t functioning too well.”

“Well somebody hit me. I landed right on my damn elbow.”

“Somebody touched me,” Lynn said. “Someone brushed past me. I felt them—only for a moment.”

“What are you raving about?” Anton snapped. “You look as if someone just ravaged you.”

“No. You don’t understand. There was something—funny—about them, something about their skin, a funny odor. I sensed something …”

“Leave the ‘sensing’ to Andrea, will you? Wonder what caused that blackout?” he asked. “Do you think the entire house was affected?” No one knew.

When they had collected themselves, Ernie looked at each one individually and said only four distinct words. “Who has the book?”

Anton looked down at the carpet. “It must have dropped to the floor.”

“You heard me. Which of you has the book?”

Andrea walked over to his side. “It’s gone?”

“Yes, it’s gone. Convenient for the lights to go out, wasn’t it? Someone took the book while the lights were out, and if I had a suspicious mind— which I do—I’d almost think the lights went out on purpose.”

“Come now, man,” Anton protested. “We were all standing here in plain view. None of us turned out any light switches or pulled any plugs. I didn’t see anyone sneak down to fiddle with the fuse box either, did you?”

“There are other ways of making lights go out,” Andrea said.

“Spells,
I suppose,” Anton countered contemptuously.

Ernie got their attention again. “Listen. I don’t care about spells or plugs or fuseboxes. All I know is that the book is gone, and someone in this room is responsible. Now I want that book back and I want it now.”

“How do you know you didn’t put it somewhere?” Anton said. “Your pocket? Back under the bed? Why accuse us? You and Andrea were the ones who were so interested in it before.”

“Someone tore it right out of my hands,” Eric said. “The lights went out, we were milling around trying to find the light switch, bumping into one another—then suddenly I felt someone grab the book and pull it out of my hand. One of you. It had to be.”

Andrea looked tired. She sighed and said, “Ernie, it might have been somebody else. Anyone could have snuck in here and taken the book while the lights were out.”

“It would have been a neat trick.”

“I know that. But it’s not impossible. We’re dealing with forces—”

“Oh damn!” Ernie cut her off. “We’re all at one another’s throats.” He sat down on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “It’s a wonder any of us can keep our sanity. This whole business—it’s just crazy. I don’t know what to make of it. If what it says in that book is true, half of us are already dead. The housekeepers—eaten alive. Cynthia and Jerry, torn apart. Gloria dashed to pieces on the rocks. Eric—hacked to bits. God, I must be going crazy. Can I actually believe things like that can happen to people in this day and age? A grown man believing that ghosts, monsters, can tear people limb from limb.”

“You read all that in that book?” Lynn asked. She seemed on the verge of hysteria.

“We’ve been trying to
tell
you,” Andrea said. “The characters in that book, for some reason beyond our comprehension, are exact duplicates of you, me, everyone on this island. The situation, the relationships, the people—exactly the same.”

“But you’ve no proof,” Lynn challenged. “Where are the bodies? How do we know any of those things actually came to pass? Just because those people are missing …”

“That’s your answer right there,” Anton said.

Lynn walked over to him. “No, it isn’t. I won’t believe anyone is dead until I see their bodies.”

“Believe me, you wouldn’t want to,” Ernie said. “Their ends were distinctly unpleasant.”

“Ernie!” Andrea gave him a desperate look. “The book would have told us who ‘our friend’ is. We could have tried to stop them from hurting anyone else. Now it’s too late.”

“ ‘Our friend’?” Anton queried. “I’ve heard that somewhere before. Just what is she talking about?”

Ernie explained. “Andrea thinks someone on the island, one of us probably, is behind these deaths. Someone is using the island’s supernatural, or psychic, forces to kill people.”

“She or he can make thoughts come to life, turn thought into reality,” Andrea continued. “She or he can create physical manifestations that can kill, that can strangle or stab or tear you to pieces just as if they were real and tangible.”

“All this metaphysical stuff is wearing me out,” Anton sighed. “It’s beyond me, I admit it. I don’t know about all this psychic mumbo-jumbo. I just want to know if someone is really killing us all off or not. And I want to know why and how I can save myself. The rest of us, I mean. And if that book can tell us,
I want that book.
If none of us have it, perhaps someone else came in and grabbed it as Andrea suggested. Who else is in the house with us?”

Andrea tapped her lower lip. “Mrs. Plushing, right?”

“Hans is with her,” Anton said. “That makes two.”

“Betty,” Lynn offered. “She’s in her room.”

“Three. And we can’t discount the others.” Anton scratched his face. “You say that Eric’s
counterpart
is killed in the book, but we don’t know for a fact that he really is dead. He—or any of the other so-called disappearees could be wandering this house, could be hiding the book again this very minute.”

“The others are
dead,
“ Andrea said with grim finality.

“Whatever. Mrs. Plushing may not be that sick, if she’s sick at all. If she is sick, Hans could have left her side at any time without her even knowing it. And Betty has been by herself for the past hour or so. Any of them might have come up here and—” Anton strode purposefully to the door, opened it, looked out into the hall.

Ernie laughed. “You don’t think they’d still be hanging around, do you, Anton?”

“Wait a minute.” Andrea bit her lip and looked at Ernie. “Even if the door had been open, one of us might have shut it during the commotion to make it look as if there’d been an intruder.”

“Clever. A regular Sherlock Holmes, this one.” Anton closed the door again and walked back to his former spot. “You know who I think is behind this? Not Lynn — surprise, surprise — not me, perish forbid, or any of us in this room. Not Betty or Hans or the ones who’ve disappeared. Everson. This is his room, too; the book was found under his bed; Lynn doesn’t know how it got there, or so she says. Everson has been here before, might have had time to arrange a lot of nasty surprises for all of us, including that book. Maybe he’s a madman obsessed with justice, and has invited us all here to pay for some heinous crimes which we got away with years ago, cooking up elaborate, fitting punishments for us, and fooling us—some of us, at least—into thinking the ‘supernatural forces’ of Lammerty Island are responsible.”

“Ten Little Indians,
” Andrea whispered.

Lynn was not amused. “Stop it, Anton. John isn’t responsible for any of this.” She turned to Ernie and implored him, “Tell me what the book said about John. Please. You were about to. Before the lights. I have to know what’s going to happen to John. He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?
Please tell me.
I couldn’t bear it if
he—”

Ernie swore. “My God.
John.
When the lights went out I’d just read about how he—or his counterpart—had come upon the foundation of the Pauling house. Something grabbed him—” He looked at Lynn. “I … don’t know what happened after that.”

“I thought you didn’t
believe,
Lynn,” Anton said.

Lynn ignored him. “I’m going to look for him.” She went into her closet, got out a coat, and began sticking her arms into the sleeves. “I’ll prove you’re wrong. John won’t even be there— where you said he was. He’s all right. He’ll come back. I’ll bring him back.” Lynn was in tears.

“We don’t know where the old foundation is,” Ernie said. “He was supposed to go to the Burrows House.”

Lynn’s mind was made up. “I’ll find him. And I’ll bring him back.”

“Listen—let
me
go look for him.”

“Ernie.
“ Andrea grabbed him by the shoulder, squeezed his hand in hers. “Don’t go. Out there. I’m scared. I need you here.”

Anton frowned. “Touching. Well,
I’m
not leaving this house. The only time bad things happen to people on this island is when they go off by themselves.”

“Lynn,” Andrea pleaded. “Stay here. Or let’s all go together.”

“Not me,” Anton said.

Lynn’s mind was set. “I’ll
go alone.”
With a flick of her head, Lynn was out the bedroom door and racing down the stairs. Ernie tried to follow, but Andrea prevented it. “Please, Ernie!”

“I can’t let her go out there alone! She’s your friend, for Christ’s sake.”

Andrea looked as if she were carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She pulled away from him, sat down on the bed. “I’m not so sure of that.”

“What do you mean? You don’t mean that she’s
‘our
friend,’ do you?”

Andrea shook her head. “I don’t think so. But I know one thing for sure. We’ve both been friends for years, lived in the same city, and she’s never mentioned her psychic powers. Never mentioned it to
me,
of all people.

“She’s not telling us everything she knows.”

Chapter 44

Everson tried to pull away from the foundation, shaking his leg frantically in an effort to disengage whatever was holding his ankle. It was too late. He was wrenched through the surrounding underbrush and fell head over heels into the overstuffed hole. Sputtering, outraged, still half-hoping it was Eric or one of the girls playing a joke on him, he tried in vain to find a foothold amidst the vines and weeds and flowers which had come together to form a mat fully several feet above the bottom of the foundation. It was on this botanical cushion that he was struggling, thrashing wildly through the plant life like a man bouncing helplessly on a trampoline.

It was impossible to stand in this underbrush, although Everson gave it the old college try. He made an attempt to pull himself to his feet by holding on to the long-stemmed grasses growing up out of the hole, but succeeded only in slicing his palms open. The edges of the grasses were razor sharp. Within seconds, his hands were drenched with blood. He tried to lift himself up by throwing himself on the prickly vines growing at the edge of the foundation, but his arms and legs were punctured by the enormous thorns that covered the vines. He fell back on the “mat” and lay there gasping, his face contorted from the pain in his torn and bleeding limbs.

“Have to get out, must get out of here,” he kept muttering, reassured by the sound of his own voice. It seemed a ridiculous predicament to him, held captive by plants, but he would not entertain the notion that “sinister forces” were at work. Obviously his ankle had got caught on one of those vines. The more he had pulled, the more the vine had tightened.