The Walker in Shadows

I

The hands of Pat's wristwatch pointed to seven thirty when she inserted her key in her door, congratulating herself on being in time to destroy the note before Mark got up. His first class was at nine a.m., and he saw no reason to rise before eight thirty. After all, it was only a twenty-minute drive to campus.

She had felt compelled to leave a note, in case some uncharacteristic quirk roused Mark earlier than normal, but Pat was thankful he wouldn't see it. She didn't want to tell him the truth and she was too tired to think up a good lie.

But as she opened the door she realized that the fate that hates mothers had dealt her another low blow. Leaving the door ajar, she made a dash for the kitchen.

Unfortunately for her, Mark was already on the stairs, and the hall was long. It never entered his head to wonder why his mother was racing through the house in the early morning hours; he entered into the game with youthful enthusiasm, and naturally beat Pat to the kitchen door by at least six feet.

"The winnah and still champeen!" he shouted, blocking the doorway and foiling Pat's efforts to pass him. "Don't you know when you're defeated? Can't run the way you used to, old lady; sit down and rest those aged bones."

He swept Pat off her feet and deposited her in a chair with a thud. He loved to carry her around the house; she suspected it was an unconscious revenge for all the years she had dragged him from place to place against his will. Or maybe it wasn't unconscious… Rubbing her posterior, she made a hideous face, trying to hold Mark's attention. It was in vain. His first move, after a long starving night, was always toward the refrigerator.

After a moment fraught with suspense, Mark looked up from the paper. His smile had vanished.

"Kathy or her old man?"

"What do you-"

"Which of 'em is it? How sick? Is she all right?"

"How did you know?"

Mark handed her the note. For the first time Pat saw what was on the other side of the paper. She cursed her own good manners. If she had folded it, instead of trying to show Josef she trusted him… Kathy had begun a theme on economic theory. Her name was neatly inscribed in the upper-right-hand corner.

"Oh, damn," Pat said, and then took pity on her distraught son. "She's fine, Mark. Really."

"I'll cook breakfast," Mark said. "You talk."

So she told him. She and Jerry had lied to Mark often enough, when he was too young to bear pain lightly- when a neighbor's dog, adored by Mark, had been hit by a car, when a pet hamster had been devoured by Albert in an absentminded moment. But, as Jerry had always said, never lie if there's a chance you'll get caught.

Mark almost burned the bacon as he listened. He interrupted only once, when she mentioned drugs.

"No," he said flatly. "Not Kathy."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm sure. Nobody but high-school kids takes LSD these days, and…" Mark stopped, giving his mother a wary look. They had had this discussion before, and it always ended in a fight, because Mark maintained no one over forty knew anything about drugs, and then Pat would demand how he knew so much. This time they were both too preoccupied with other issues to pursue a minor one. Mark went on indignantly, "Damn it, Mom, how can you suggest theories like that when it's obvious what happened?"

"You mean-"

"Friedrichs. I knew that old pervert was-"

"No." It was Pat's turn to be positive. "I know. Wait, you haven't heard the rest of it."

She left out only one thing-her own dream, which had so oddly echoed Kathy's nightmare. When she finished, Mark's eyes were shining and his face had the queerest look, half excitement, half wonder.

"She was awake, when she saw it?"

"Of course she wasn't," Pat snapped. "She dreamed she woke up. I've had that happen in dreams, so have you."

"So she dreamed she woke up. Tell me again what she dreamed she saw when she dreamed she was awake."

"Now, see here, Mark-"

"Please, Mom. In detail."

Pat sighed. "Oh, all right. I haven't got the strength to argue with you.

"Kathy said she was lying on her side facing the window." Pat spoke slowly, trying to reproduce, if not the girl's exact words, the mood and the atmosphere. "She wakened with a start, the way you wake when some loud, unexpected noise jars you out of sleep. She said she could feel her heart beating. It was a frightening sensation. She lay still for a moment, wondering what had awakened her and why she felt so alarmed. She saw the curtains-filmy white dacron-moving in the night breeze, like ghostly figures. But she knew that wasn't what had frightened her."

"Go on," Mark said urgently.

"My scrambled eggs are getting cold," Pat said, taking a bite. "Besides, I'm trying to remember exactly… She was cold, horribly cold. The window was open only a few inches, but she felt icy air envelop her body, as if it slid under the blanket to get at her. With the cold came a mindless terror, and a conviction that something was in the room."

"Something or someone?"

"She said 'something, " Pat admitted. "She couldn't see clearly, but she imagined a kind of curdled shape in the shadows. She was afraid to call out. If a thief had sneaked into the room, an outcry might alarm him and cause him to attack her. She said she and her friends had discussed what they would do in such cases, and had decided the safest course was to pretend to be asleep. Thieves don't usually attack people unless they-"

"Never mind the crime lecture," Mark interrupted. "We've discussed it ourselves; what defenseless citizen hasn't, these days? It wasn't a burglar that woke Kathy."

"I don't know that and neither do you," Pat said. "She did decide to remain still-which wasn't a difficult decision, because she couldn't have moved if she had wanted to. Then… then the objects in the room began to move around."

This was the part of the story that bothered her most. All the rest could be explained away. So could this, of course, as a product of dreaming; but…

"Small objects at first," Pat went on reluctantly. "Papers on the desk lifted and scattered. That could have been the wind. But wind couldn't have shifted a pair of china figurines or pulled books from the shelves-or moved the lamp on the bedside table.It… it's a rather heavy lamp, with a bronze base. She had chosen one of that type be cause the dainty porcelain types fall over easily, and don't give enough light to read in bed."

Mark paled visibly. Pat knew he was thinking of Kathy's lovely little face, with its fragile bones and delicate skin. The lamp had been lying on her pillow, where her head had rested. At best, it would have bruised and cut her.

"It didn't hit her," she reassured him again. "She moved when it started to topple. She remembers running and screaming, nothing more; not even her father grabbing her."

Mark started to speak; then he closed his mouth and cocked his head. Pat knew the look, and was on guard when he said craftily, "She's probably lying, to protect her father."

"You don't believe that any more than I do. You're trying to distract me, and I only wish I knew what from. Homework? Did you finish that paper? Is that why you're up so early, hoping to get it done before class? If you think I'm going to type it for you, at this hour-"

"The paper has been turned in," Mark said, in injured tones. "I have to get to school early, that's all. I told Jim I'd help him with his math before class."

"You mean Jim told you you could copy his homework. Get going, then. I'm so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. I'm going to bed."

Mark insisted on helping her upstairs, as if she were a hundred years old. She sank into dreamless slumber the minute her head hit the pillow.

II

It was late afternoon before she woke, and she probably would have slept longer if Albert had not settled down on her stomach. He did that when he decided it was time for his slothful humans to arise and feed him.

Pat heaved the cat off, and got up. The house was quiet, so she knew Mark wasn't in it. He had returned from school, however. The dishes piled in the sink and the splashes of spaghetti sauce on the stove told her that. She got herself a cup of coffee and drank it, glancing through the paper as she did so. Then she went outside.

The first thing she saw was her son's back. He was sitting on top of the fence that separated their house from that of the Friedrichs'. She was too far away to hear what he was saying, but she could see that he was talking; his head bobbed up and down, and once he waved both arms in an eloquent gesture that almost sent him toppling off the fence.

The grass needed cutting again. Pat waded through it toward the fence, her mouth set. She moved silently, but some sixth sense warned Mark of her approach. He turned a tousled brown head toward her, and before she could speak he said in dulcet tones, "I'm not breaking the rules, Mommy. My feet aren't touching the forbidden ground."

"Smart mouth," Pat said.

There was a giggle from the other side of the fence, and a voice said, "Hi, Mrs. Robbins. Isn't it a pretty day?"

"Hello, Kathy. How are you feeling?"

"Fine." A wide blue eye appeared in a crack between two boards. "Dad said I didn't have to go to school. But I feel great. I wanted to thank you for what you did last night."

"That's quite all right." Pat felt peculiar talking to an eye. She came closer to the fence. "Is your father there?"

"No, ma'am. He went to work."

"I've been thinking perhaps you ought to see a doctor, Kathy. Just to be on the safe side."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Mrs. Robbins. Really. Mark just explained everything to me." The eye narrowed in an expression only too familiar to Pat, who grimaced dis gustedly as Kathy continued in adoring tones, "He knows all about it. I mean, I really appreciate him telling me. It's not so scary when I know it was a ghost, not me going crazy or anything like that."

Even after years of exposure to that curious phenomenon that passes for reasoning among the young of the human species, Pat was left speechless by this comment. She glanced up at her son, who was regarding her with what could only be described as a superior smirk. Then he looked away, and his expression changed to one of guilt and alarm. If Pat hadn't been so angry she would have laughed. She didn't need Kathy's cry of greeting to know who was approaching.

"Hi, Dad. You're home early."

"One of my meetings was canceled," said Josef's deep voice. "We have a date for dinner, Kathy, remember? If you're sure you feel up to it."

Pat leaned against the fence, folded her arms, and prepared to enjoy the conversation-if it was going to be a conversation and not a dialogue. Would Josef acknowledge Mark's presence? It would be difficult to ignore the lanky figure atop the fence, but if anyone could do it, Josef was the man.

Kathy foiled her attempt to remain a detached spectator.

"Mrs. Robbins is there on the other side of the fence, Dad," she said gaily. "Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Hello," Josef said.

Feeling like a fool, Pat responded.

"You'll excuse us," Josef said smoothly, "but we've a long drive and I don't want to be late. Kathy?"

"Yes, all right. Good-bye, Mrs. Robbins, and thanks again. So long, Mark. See you."

Pat scuttled toward the house. What a fool she must have looked, lurking behind the fence. But there was no gate in it. Jerry had made sure of that.

Later, she was to call herself bad names for ignoring the vital clue in that conversation. But she was thinking of other things, such as Josef's successful attempt to squelch Mark by pretending he was invisible, and when she reached the house she found another distraction. She had condemned Josef for bad manners-he might at least have thanked her for her all-night vigil-but as soon as she walked in the back door she heard a knock at the front. When she answered it she saw a messenger carrying a long white box. It contained a sheaf of exquisite, long-stemmed yellow roses. The card was particularly eloquent, it read simply, "Thank you," and his name. But how had he known that yellow roses were her favorites?

She was looking for a vase tall enough to contain such elegance when Mark came in. With cool effrontery he picked up the card and read it aloud.

" Thank you, Josef.' Where does he get off using his first name?"

Rummaging in seldom-used cabinets high above her head, Pat found a tall crystal pitcher.

"We spent the night together, after all," she said.

"Hmph," said Mark.

Pat put the flowers on the table between the brown plastic bowl and the chipped cream pitcher.

"Classy," Mark said. "Inappropriate, but classy."

"You've been seeing Kathy, haven't you?"

Mark dropped the spoon he had been playing with, and dived under the table in pursuit of it. When he came up his face was red, but that might have been explained by his upside-down position. However, one look at his mother's face told him the futility of denials.

"Two hundred years ago they'd have burned you as a witch," he muttered.

"Don't flatter yourself, you aren't that enigmatic," his mother said cruelly. "I should have known you were up to something; you've been so cheerful lately. Today's con versation with Kathy was just a little too fluent if you had seen as little of her as you claimed."

"And?" Mark raised his eyebrows.

"And, while I was searching her room last night I found a note-don't sneer at me like that, I had to do it, Mark! It was under the blotter on her desk and it said, 'Meet me at the usual place, midnight.' It wasn't signed; but I thought at the time the writing looked familiar. If I hadn't been concerned with more important things I'd have put two and two together long before this."

"We only met a couple of times," Mark mumbled.

"Where?"

"That old oak tree at the back of their yard. The branches go down almost to the ground on one side, and-uh-"

"I don't know what to say."

"That's a change," Mark said cheekily. "Hey, Mom, take it easy. I'm not doing anything you need to be ashamed of."

"The note had one other word. I didn't quote it because I didn't want to embarrass you."

Mark's eyes fell. "You sign letters that way even to people you hate. Great-Aunt Martha-"

"I do not meet Great-Aunt Martha under the oak tree at midnight. Mark, let's not play games. You know what I'm talking about."

"Yeah, I do, and I think I'm being insulted. Mom, let me handle it. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?"

They ate in cold, unhappy silence. The velvety roses mocked Pat with their serene beauty and their promise of friendship. If Josef Friedrichs found out Mark and Kathy had met clandestinely-and in such a stupidly romantic, potentially dangerous place… Why couldn't they get together at a local pizza place or even a bar? But Pat knew why. Kathy was so closely supervised she could only elude her father late at night, after she was supposed to be in bed. Josef was wrong to treat a girl that age like a baby or a criminal, but his folly did not excuse Mark's.

III

Winston Churchill, it is said, conducted World War II on three hours of sleep a night, augmented by frequent naps. Pat was not one of the napping kind; her afternoon sleep always left her cross and groggy, fit only for an early night. She went to bed at ten. Mark's light was still on. He had been at his desk since seven, and when she glanced in to say a rather cool good-night she was softened by the evidences of scholarly industry. His desk was piled high with books and he was taking notes with furious energy.

But instinct prevails. Pat woke in the post-midnight dark fully alert and vibrant with apprehension. At first she could not account for her feeling of impending danger. The house was quiet except for the usual creaking of shutters and thumping of radiators. Albert lay at the foot of the bed snoring and twitching, dreaming of mice.

Jud usually slept with Mark-in his bed, if he could get away with it. As Pat lay wide-eyed in the dark, listening, she heard the faint metallic jingle that accompanied the dog's movements-the rattle of his license, ID, and rabies tags. She knew, however, that this noise had not awakened her. Jud sometimes walked in the night, looking for food, water, or entertainment, especially if Mark had roused enough to kick him out of the bed. Her sleeping mind had long since learned to ignore this familiar sound.

With a sigh she swung her feet onto the floor and padded down the hall to Mark's room. Somehow she knew what she was going to find: a smooth, unrumpled bed, the spread as neat as it had been that afternoon when she made it.

She went to the window. The foliage had filled out, and it was difficult to see the house next door, but a faint gleam from the window of the master bedroom cut through the night. Kathy's window was dark. Moonlight traced the shape of the flowering apple tree at the back corner, turning it into a pale cloud of whiteness.

Pat swore, using some of the words she had learned from Mark. Muttering to herself, she went back to her room and dressed quickly in jeans and shirt, slipping her feet into a pair of worn sneakers. The hall light was on, as it always was at night. The rest of the house was dark. Pat pressed the switches as she proceeded, down the stairs and along the passsage to the kitchen, remembering how the lights had moved through Halcyon House on the previous night. She hoped Josef wouldn't see her lights and come rushing to the rescue. That could be disastrous, if what she was beginning to fear was true.

There was no one in the kitchen except Jud, sitting hopefully by the back door. When he saw Pat his tail switched and his mouth opened, emitting a long moist pink tongue. The chain on the kitchen door dangled.

Pat left the door on the latch, shoving Jud back inside with a peremptory foot when he would have accompanied her. One hurt, irritated yelp followed her; then came silence. Jud was not much of a barker.

As soon as she stepped off the path into the long grass, her shoes were soaked with dew. She had to go around to the front gate. There was no other way through to the next house. A streetlight some distance away sent long shadows wavering eerily across the sidewalk. Pat thought of going back for a flashlight, and decided that on this occasion she had better not risk it.

The night was abnormally still. The click of the latch on the gate as she closed it behind her echoed like a gunshot. She went through the Friedrichs' gate, leaving it open. Shuffling in the darkness, she tripped over a loose brick in the sidewalk and caught at a tree trunk to keep herself from falling.

The backyard was huge, over two acres in extent, spotted by old trees that spread great pools of dark shadow across the moonlit grass. Some were fruit trees; the pale blossoms looked ghostly in the dimness. Pat went toward the apple tree by Kathy's window. She was beginning to feel a little foolish. Perhaps her hunch had been wrong. But when she put her hand on the tree trunk her fingers recoiled from a clammy lump of some wet, sticky substance. Mud. A large chunk of it, lodged in the wedge between the trunk and the first low-set, spreading branch. Someone had climbed that tree, so recently that the earth left by his shoes was still wet. Pat had no doubt whatever as to the identity of the climber.

She wiped her muddy fingers on the seat of her jeans and tried to think what she should do. Kathy's window was wide open. A wisp of white curtain moved in the night breeze. Had there been a screen in that window? She couldn't remember. If there had been, it had been removed; the end of the curtain flailed out through the opening and then blew back.

She couldn't call out. That would really create a crisis. Josef was still awake. The light from his window cut a wide swath across the darkness, touching the edge of the apple tree. She was sure, with the unerring instinct of infuriated maternity, that her son was up there in Kathy's room, and she had no idea what to do about it.

She had little time to debate. As she stood, raging and uncertain, her hand absentmindedly rubbing the rough bark of the tree, she realized that something was happening up above. The window of the girl's room, which had been as black as a cave mouth, began to lighten. The light was not that of any normal lamp; it was a sickly blue-green glow, phosphorescent and ugly. No sooner had she observed it than she heard a muffled crash from the inte rior of the room; then the light was obscured by a dark shape, and she heard voices. They were mere whispers of sound; but she recognized both of them.

"The branch is there by your foot," muttered her son. "I've got hold of you, don't worry… Quick. It's com-ing."

"I'm all right. Hurry, Mark, please hurry…"

The second voice was Kathy's. Staring up, Pat saw a slim dark shape squirm out of the window, attach itself to the tree, and move downward. Her heart was thudding in her breast. As the light above strengthened, turning the open window into a square of unspeakable, nameless color, the sounds from within increased-crashes, thuds… And Mark was in there, with-whatever it was.

Even as her lips parted, prepared to scream a warning, Mark scrambled onto the tree limb. The light was strong enough to illumine his face, giving his skin a livid, corpselike hue.

Kathy slid down practically into Pat's arms, and the older woman clutched at her. Kathy let out a squeal. Then she recognized Pat, in spite of the darkness. "Goodness, you scared me," she said.

"Mark," Pat gurgled.

"He's here," Kathy said coolly, reaching out an arm to touch Mark as he jumped the last few feet, landing with a squashy thud.

"Hi, Mom. What are you doing here? You ought to be in bed."

For the second time that day Pat's voice failed her. It was not only indignation that rendered her speechless. Something other than light flowed from the open window; a finger of sickening cold touched her, weakening her knees, so that she had to grab at the tree for support. And the smell… No, not a smell; it was no phenomenon that could be identified by any normal sense. Its strangeness assaulted all the senses, making her skin crawl and her nose wrinkle, offending even vision by the noncolor of that ghastly light. The very sounds affronted reason, for they were the sounds of objects moving without anything to make them move.

A particularly appalling crash came from the window. It was followed by footsteps, muffled by distance, but clearly audible-running footsteps, and a cry, cut off almost as soon as it began by another crash.

Pat caught her son's foot as he started back up the tree.

"Not that way," she gasped. "For God's sake, Mark!"

The horrid, sickly light was fading, but the aura of foul cold still wafted in weakening waves from the open window. For once Mark yielded to her demand without argument or delay. He slid back down the trunk.

"That was Mr. Friedrichs," he said. "We've got to get in the house. Kathy, how-"

"The front door," Kathy said. She began to run.

She ran like Atalanta, driven by terror. When Pat caught up with her she was on the porch, groping with frantic fingers along the ledge over the door.

"Here it is," she gasped. "We keep a key there in case-"

Mark snatched it from her shaking fingers and inserted it in the lock. But they had forgotten the extra precautions taken by nervous householders. The door yielded only a few inches and then was held by the chain.

"Get back," Mark said. He flung his full weight against the door.

With a crack the chain snapped and the door flew open. Mark plunged in.

The hall was in darkness, but a light shone down the stairs from the corridor above. With the two women in close pursuit, Mark ran up.

They found Josef Friedrichs in the hall outside Kathy's door. He lay face down on the floor, his arms outflung as if he had tried to snatch at something-or ward it off. All around him were the sparkling, glowing shards of what had once been a tall Chinese vase. Pat had noticed it the night before, the exquisite curving shape of it, and the magnificent reds and pinks and greens of a pattern of chrysanthemums and feeding birds. Its carved teak stand was empty.

Kathy's bedroom door was closed; but Pat was aware that the sounds and the breath of sickly cold air had stopped. Thank God for that, she thought; if he's fractured his skull or broken any bones, it would be dangerous to move him… but not as dangerous as to leave him within the range of the unknown force that had invaded Kathy's room.

She brushed the sobbing girl out of the way and knelt by Josef, her skilled hands searching for the signs that would tell her what she needed to know. Some of the broken shards, melancholy in their reminder of broken beauty, lay on Josef's back. Automatically Pat brushed them off.

The vase had struck him on the side of the head, behind his right ear. A lump was already rising, and a thin trail of blood snaked down his neck and under the collar of his shirt. Minor cuts marked his right hand and forearm. But his pulse was steady, and his breathing regular.

Kathy, held in the protective circle of Mark's arm, struggled to control herself. She brushed pathetically at the tears on her cheek with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of mud across her smooth skin.

"He's all right," Mark assured her, stroking her hair. He was obviously more concerned with Kathy's feelings than with her father's wounds; and his mother shot him a look of active dislike before adding her own words of reassurance.

"There's no fracture, Kathy, just a nasty lump. Unless he has a concussion-"

Josef interrupted the diagnosis by groaning. His eyes opened and stared blankly at Pat. He struggled to a sitting position.

"Kathy," he muttered.

"I'm right here, Dad. I'm fine."

She threw her arms around him, so enthusiastically that he fell back against the wall, giving his head another nasty bump. The Robbinses, mother and son, watched the touching tableau with mixed emotions. Pat wasn't sure what Mark was thinking; her own feelings, a blend of relief, bewilderment, and fright, included a sudden awareness of the fact that she was wearing the jeans she usually used for painting, and that she had neglected to take the curlers out of her hair.

Friedrichs insisted he didn't have to go to the hospital. "I am well aware of the symptoms of concussion," he told Pat brusquely. "If I start seeing double, I'll tell you."

Pat knew a stubborn man when she met one. She didn't argue. But she did prevail in one thing: that the Friedrichs spend what remained of the night at her house. Josef agreed for his daughter's sake. The sight of Kathy's room, a disaster area of broken glass, scattered papers, and toppled furniture, turned all of them a little sick. It wasn't so much the mess as the suggestion of malevolence behind such destruction that was frightening.

Reassured about her father, Kathy responded with enthusiasm when Mark suggested they all have a snack and talk things over. The adults were not so eager.

"Tomorrow is Saturday," Pat pointed out. "We can talk after we've had some sleep. I don't think any of us is in condition to think sensibly just now."

Mark, about to remonstrate, caught Josef's eye, and subsided. It was obvious even to him that among the things that would have to be discussed was his presence in Kathy's bedroom at one o'clock in the morning. He didn't need Kathy's warning nudge to know that his ex cuses would have to be very convincing and his audience very kindly disposed toward him.

Although it was Pat who had insisted on going to bed, she was the only one who failed to woo slumber successfully. The big old house had plenty of bedrooms, it was no problem to find room for two guests. The young people dropped off immediately; and when she peeked into Josef's room he was lying quietly. But she was keyed up and worried; despite Josef's disclaimers she felt she ought to keep an eye on him. On her third visit to his room a voice came out of the dark as she hovered distractedly in the doorway.

"For God's sake, Pat, will you go to bed? Every time you tiptoe in here, that damned dog follows you. He jingles so loud he wakes me up."

Pat crept away, aiming a backward kick at Jud as she did so. He eluded it easily, being accustomed to such signs of disapproval, and jingled down the hall after her. She had been more active than Mark that evening, and Jud had hopes of further activity. But this time Pat disappointed him by falling asleep.

It was well past noon when she was awakened by her son, who was looking revoltingly healthy and alert. He had at least had the tact to bring her a cup of coffee. That cheered her briefly, but then the events of the previous night came back in a flood of horrible memories. She told Mark he was a rude, inconsiderate brat, and tried to put the pillow over her head.

"Everybody else is up," Mark said. "I'm making brunch. Shake a leg."

Pat spent considerable time getting dressed. The memory of her curlers and dirty jeans still rankled, so she put on a new blouse and checked skirt and made up her face with particular care. As she might have expected, Mark greeted her entrance into the kitchen with a piercing whistle and the question, "Where's the party?"

"I always dress in my best for a round-table discussion about burglars," Pat said disagreeably.

Kathy was sitting at the kitchen table, looking sleepy and adorable in Pat's favorite robe, the pale-blue chiffon she had bought on sale at Saks, and saved for special occasions. The girl was watching Mark with wide-eyed admiration as he moved efficiently from the sink to the stove. When Pat appeared she jumped up-the tribute of youth to age-and Pat noticed in passing that the gown was several inches too long for her. No doubt the hem would be ripped, and dirty.

"Thanks," she muttered, as Kathy pulled out a chair. "Where's your father?"

The back door opened and Josef came in. He was freshly shaved and was dressed neatly in tan slacks and plaid sports shirt, but his expression was grim.

"All quiet on the home front," he said. "I think it's safe for us to go back. We won't intrude on your hospitality any longer."

"You can't run away from it," Mark said, placing a platter of scrambled eggs and sausage on the table. "You can't pretend it didn't happen. Kathy can't go back to that house, Mr. Friedrichs."

"Now just a minute, young man," Pat began. Josef shook his head.

"He's right, Pat. We do have a few things to discuss. First and foremost, I think, is the question of what you were doing in my daughter's room last night…"

"Mark," said that young man helpfully. "The name is Mark, Mr. Friedrichs. Have some scrambled eggs."

"He makes wonderful scrambled eggs," Kathy said. "How many heroes can also cook?"

She smiled broadly at her father. After a moment he smiled back at her. Pat blinked. She had never imagined that a smile could do so much for a man's looks. He was really quite handsome when his eyes lost their steely coldness.

"Mark won't defend himself, so I will," Kathy said. Mark's mother wondered where she had gotten this idea, but did not contradict it; and Kathy went on, "We planned it yesterday afternoon, Dad. He suspected what might happen. And he was right, wasn't he? If he hadn't been there…"

A shiver ran through her body, and Friedrichs' smile faded.

"What precisely did happen?" he asked.

"Well, it came back," Kathy said simply. "We were sitting in the dark, just talking, in whispers… And then it came. First the light. It was kind of a sickly glow, faint at first; then it got stronger. And things started to move around. You know what it was like, Dad? Like somebody very weak, trying to move after lying for a long time in bed. First it just blew the papers on the desk. Then it got stronger. The mirror lifted up off the wall and broke. A chair fell over. Mark helped me out the window-"

"Why didn't you go out the door?" Pat asked.

"It was between us and the door," Mark said.

He spoke through a mouthful of eggs, and his voice was muffled; but instead of sounding funny, the statement sent a chill up Pat's spine.

"I was outside the window," she said. "I saw it. At least, I saw the light, and felt… It was indescribably bad. All the same-"

"Come on, Mom," Mark exclaimed. "You're not going to insist that it was burglars, are you? Damn it, you were down below, but I was there. I never felt anything like that in my life. It was fascinating."

Josef choked on a mouthful of food. When he had recovered himself he looked at Mark and said thoughtfully, "I have a feeling, Mark, that you are going to be one of the greater trials I have encountered in a lifetime not entirely free of aggravation. All the same, I can't help admiring your attitude. Fascinating?"

"Well, you know," Mark mumbled around a sausage. "I never believed in that stuff before, not really. Ghost stories are fun, but in real life… When Kathy and I talked it over yesterday afternoon, I was ninety percent convinced, but it was intellectual conviction, you know what I mean? Not a real gut belief. Then the damned thing began-and it was like, well, like Saint Theresa describing her meeting with God. It can't be described, it has to be experienced; and when you do experience it, you have no doubts at all."

Pat had not been to church for years, but she had once been a good Presbyterian. She was about to protest Mark's comments, which smacked of one of the lesser heresies, when Josef said calmly, "That's not a bad analogy. Poorly expressed, of course-your generation is barely literate, Mark-but the comparison is valid."

"Josef!" Pat exclaimed.

"He's right, Pat. I experienced it. I'm sure you and all the good ladies of the neighborhood are aware of the fact that I am a lawyer. That doesn't mean I'm not a fool; but the legal profession does give one some regard for evidence." His hand went to the back of his head, where the lump was rising to spectacular proportions. "That's evidence, Pat. I wasn't drunk, or drugged, last night. I was dozing; after what had happened the previous night I was a little apprehensive about Kathy, and I meant to stay awake, but I was pretty tired. I didn't hear the trouble begin. One particularly loud crash woke me, and I went tearing toward her room. I was almost there when the vase-that Chinese vase that stood on a pedestal in the hall-rose up off its base and flew at me."

Pat stared, her eyes wide. Josef nodded.

"Yes, I saw it. Out of the corner of my eye, admittedly; but I couldn't be mistaken. There was no one there. The vase didn't fall, it lifted up into the air before it came at me. I had just time enough to turn and shield my head with my right arm. My hand deflected it somewhat, I think, or I'd be in worse shape than I am. It was quite heavy."

"Poltergeist," Mark said.

"Well…" Again the glance Josef gave Mark was mingled with unwilling respect. "I suppose you're right. I hadn't thought of it in quite those terms."

"What is a poltergeist?" Pat asked, hoping it wasn't quite as unacceptable to common sense as an ordinary ghost.

Apparently she was the only one unfamiliar with the term. The others all spoke at once. As was to be expected, Mark's voice dominated.

"It's a mischievous spirit, or malicious ghost. It makes rapping noises and throws stones and things. The classic case-the one that marks the beginning of the Spiritualist movement-was that of the Fox sisters, in 1848-"

"Not a good example, Mark," Josef interrupted. "Margaret Fox confessed, forty years later, that she produced the rappings by cracking the joint of her big toe."

"But-" Mark began.

"Let me finish." Josef turned to Pat. "I became interested in the subject because I once had a case that in-volved a supposed poltergeist. A family had bought a house that proved to be virtually uninhabitable. The bedclothes were pulled off the beds while people were sleeping in them, the walls reverberated with knocking and rapping all night long, stones and rocks fell, apparently out of empty air. The family sued my client, claiming that he knew when he sold them the house that it was haunted. There was no denying that disturbances had occurred; several unimpeachable outside witnesses had observed them."

"You never told me about that case," Kathy said.

"It was ten years ago, Kathy; and God knows I never imagined we'd have any personal interest in haunted houses. At any rate, I did some research on poltergeists and learned a few facts that saved my client from an expensive settlement.

"In almost every reported case, as in that one, there was an adolescent child living in the disturbed house. Often psychic investigators were able to prove that the child had caused the disturbances by the same sort of trickery practiced by stage magicians. The hand is faster than the eye, in fact, and these kids were amazingly adept at twitching strings, pushing objects with their toes, and so on."

"Wait a minute," Mark said. "Not all the cases could be explained that way. I remember reading-"

"A book by some quack ghost hunter, probably. People of that ilk are either cynical professional writers, willing to report anything that will sell, or they are incredibly gullible. The investigators of the Society for Psychic Research aren't so naive. When a thorough, controlled investigation of a poltergeist was made, trickery was almost always found."

Mark's face was getting red. Pat knew he was controlling himself with an effort; he would have interrupted anyone but Kathy's father long since.

"Aren't you being inconsistent, Josef?" she asked. "You say you saw the vase move, but you maintain that all poltergeist cases are faked. Or are you accusing Kathy?"

"Certainly not! Besides, if Mark's evidence can be trusted, she was outside the house when the vase moved."

It was Mark's turn to choke with indignation.

"If that's what legal training does for you, I don't want it. You can't clear your own daughter of trying to brain you unless she's got an alibi? What kind of-"

"That's the only way we can approach this mess," Josef said angrily. "By being rigorously logical. If we make exceptions-"

"Well, dammit, I don't suspect the people I love of-"

"You young jackass, it isn't a question-"

Pat banged her hand down on the table. Plates rattled, and the debaters stopped shouting.

"That's enough," she said severely. "You're behaving like spoiled brats-both of you. Mark, is there any more coffee?"

Mark got up and went to the stove. Even the back of his neck was red.

"You are quite right," Josef said, his flush subsiding. "I apologize for shouting. All the same-"

Mark returned with the coffeepot and poured, rather sloppily. Being younger, he was not as well disciplined as Josef; his cheekbones still showed bright spots of temper, but when he spoke he was obviously trying to be conciliatory.

"I-uh-guess I should apologize too. But if you'd just let me say something…"

"He's right, Dad, it's his turn," Kathy said. "You aren't conversing, you're lecturing."

Josef turned impetuously to his daughter.

"Kathy, you know I didn't mean-"

"I know." She patted his hand. "It's that blasted legal training. Now listen to Mark."

A lesser personage might have been intimidated by the glare Josef turned upon him, but Mark was not the most modest of men. His chest expanded visibly as the others sat waiting for him to speak, and he took his time about beginning, measuring sugar into his coffee and clearing his throat several times.

"You left out one thing about poltergeists, Mr. Fried-richs. Sure, some of them are out-and-out fakes. But there is another theory. Some psychologists claim that a young person, especially a female entering puberty, is sort of… well… overflowing with psychic and sexual energy. Sometimes, especially if the adolescent personality is disturbed to begin with, this energy finds an outlet in poltergeist-type manifestations."

Despite Mark's pompous language, his meaning was clear. Pat half expected Kathy to throw something at him. Instead she laughed, freely and delightfully.

"That's the silliest thing I ever heard of."

"It certainly couldn't apply to Kathy," Pat agreed. She smiled at the girl, ready to forgive even the ruination of her favorite negligee. "I've never seen a less disturbed adolescent personality. Besides, if you are talking about puberty-"

"I went through that six years ago," Kathy said scornfully. "It's just silly, Mark. I mean, back in the nineteenth century maybe it was a shock to a girl, but these days…"

"Oh, I don't believe it," Mark said. "I just mentioned it to clear the air. I don't think what we've got is a poltergeist, anyway."

Josef followed the exchange interestedly, his elbows on the table, his fingers buried in his hair.

"Then what you believe," he said precisely, "is that there is an active, malevolent personality behind this-not just some vague, undefined burst of psychic energy."

"Good," Mark said patronizingly. "Right on. What we have got, ladies and sir, is a ghost."

Silence followed this statement. The refrigerator turned itself on with a click. Sunlight streamed through the windows, brightening the faded, flowery chintz of the cur-tains and setting sparks flaring off the coppery molds that adorned the walls. In the center of the kitchen table the yellow roses had spread their petals wide.

"This is unreal," Pat said.

Three pairs of eyes turned toward her. Josef's were a deep brown, almost black. She hadn't noticed their color before.

"I know how you feel," he said gently. "But I'm afraid it's a possibility. At least I'm willing to listen to Mark's statement." His voice sharpened as he turned to Mark. "I assume he has a statement-a long one."

"Not as long as I'd like it to be," Mark said, with unusual humility. "However, I will start with the fact that this isn't the first time your house has seen manifestations. Old Hiram-"

"Yes, I've heard of old Hiram," Josef said. "Go on."

"He wasn't crazy," Mark said. "I guess you could call him eccentric, although Dad used to say any man had the right to live the way he wanted, so long as he wasn't hurting anybody else."

"Did old Hiram hurt anybody else?" Josef asked.

Mark grinned. The chipped front tooth, damaged in a hard fall on the basketball court, gave his smile a gamin look.

"He threw rocks at us," he said. "Looking back on it, I don't think he really meant to hit anybody, any more than we meant to hassle him. Well, maybe we did, a little, he was such an old grouch. But mostly it was the place-all overgrown and weedy, a swell place to play war games and spies. And there were the buried-treasure stories. But then old Hiram complained, and Dad made me build that fence. Wow. That really hurt. Spending three Saturdays working, when I could have been playing baseball. Anyhow, after that we didn't bug Hiram; but he kind of liked Dad…"

"You are wandering from the subject," Pat said.

"What?" Mark gave her a startled look. "Oh. I guess I was. Anyhow, Hiram told Dad that when he first moved into the house some funny things happened. Lights, and objects moving around. He said he figured it was a ghost, so he stood in the middle of the hall and yelled out that he was a stranger, and he wouldn't bother it if it didn't bother him."

" 'Eccentric' is hardly the word for Hiram," Josef said drily. "Did that stop the manifestations?"

"I guess so. He said he never had no more trouble-"

"Mark, your grammar," Pat said.

"I'm quoting," Mark said blandly. "But Dad said it was an interesting story. He believed it, not because old Hiram wasn't peculiar, but because his peculiarities wouldn't take that form."

He looked at the others as if hoping they would understand what he meant. Surprisingly, it was Friedrichs who nodded.

"Yes, I see. Old Hiram might have delusions of persecution from Russians or Martians or vicious small boys, but not from poltergeists. Nor would he have mentioned the subject to your father, who was only a casual acquaintance, unless-"

"Yeah, that was it. He didn't want us hanging around anyway; he hated everybody, especially kids. But he told Dad he was afraid we'd start the ghost up again. Things were nice and quiet, he said, and he liked them that way."

"He wasn't so crazy," Josef muttered. "All right, Mark, I'll accept your first point. The-er-trouble did not originate with us. Are you suggesting I stand in the hall and shout reassurances, as he did, to our racketing spirit?"

"No, look-you don't get what I'm driving at. It isn't just a random effect. It woke up, like, when Hiram moved in. But he wasn't… what it wanted."

"Ugh," Kathy said violently. "I don't like that idea."

"Neither do I," Pat said. "Stop beating around the bush, Mark. You insinuated that you and-and your father had looked into the ghost theory. What are you driving at?"

"It sounds so unconvincing when you just state it flat out, without explaining-"

"State it flat out," Pat said firmly.

"Okay, okay. I think there is a ghost… spirit… whatever you want to call it. I think it dates from the period just after these houses were built. Now wait -do any of you know anything about the history of these two houses?"

He knew they didn't. Pat glowered at him, and Josef froze him with a cold legal stare; but Mark was basking in the warmth of Kathy's admiration and ignored the adult disdain.

"They are twin houses, as you know," he said, addressing all of them, though he continued to look at Kathy. "They were built in 1843, by a Mr. Peters, for his twin daughters…"