The Dark Read online

  We, of the Historical Society, do not remember the early years. The Barrister was born in 1913, I in 1914, and Cat? No gentleman speculates on a lady’s age.

  By the time we matured, Julie was old: seventy-two in 1930, filthy rich, disgustingly active, and too vital; plus (it was rumored) at his age, obscene. Gabrielle had long since ceased to play the part of mistress. She called herself “artistic director;” but in truth, she was a procurer for Julie. Gabrielle’s troupe, some of them, had remained but were no longer seen. It was as if they danced their way into smoke or mist. By the time we, of the Historical Society, reached working age, Seven Sisters stood at its height.

  I must tell what it was then, before saying what it is now.

  In my youth, Seven Sisters stood in a semicircle surrounded by rolling lawns and cascading fountains. A dark forest of fir and cedar framed the background. The houses were massive, three and four stories, and in their prime were masterpieces of Victorian architecture. From left to right, they were:

  Forte, four stories bracketed with four turrets and painted in lilac with royal-purple trim. The first floor held a thrust stage for dancers, the top floors held apartments.

  Muse, a brooding mansion with small windows of crystal, the windows lodged in walls painted black, and ornamented in gray. It rose into our gray skies like dark poetry.

  Maestro, a concert hall with a ceiling forty feet high, and with practice rooms and living quarters. It stood three and a half stories, the colors bluegrass and teal.

  Gaudens, the tallest and narrowest of the seven, it stood more like a tower than a house, and was itself a sculpture in marble-pink. Its balconies displayed busts of the famous, but in chaotic order … Socrates beside Mendelssohn.

  Thespia, a theater lodged in the largest of the mansions. By 1920, gas lights had been replaced by electricity. The massive stage, and seating for a thousand, carried paint of red and black; was colored auburn and black inside, with rose-colored stage curtains. The mansion stood four stories and included small practice stages, closets of costumes, and, of course, living quarters with many beds.

  Greco, more neoclassical than Victorian, stood brilliant and unornamented in white behind massive pillars. At three stories, it was the smallest of the mansions. Its architectural statement posed simplicity among mansions ornamented with Victorian roses.

  Michelangelo, was a museum, and was thought by those whose business it is to know such things, an architectural failure. Natural light in the northwest runs to gray more than gold. The enormous windows of the mansion helped illuminate its display galleries and studios. Had the builder allowed the structure to remain plain, what a success might have been had. Instead, where clear glass was not needed, stained glass was added. The mansion stood like a patchwork quilt of color, sporting unneeded turrets and widows’ walks.

  When we of the Historical Society were young, we strolled the well-tended lawns. We watched beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen pause as they chatted before fountains. In the mansions, craftsmen and artists worked. The place seemed a small city and we, young and untested, could not imagine the dread force hovering above the silver crash of water from the fountains.

  “I surely believe,” Cat says, “that we appeared on the scene just as decline began.” She shifts lightly in her chair. In this old library, there are now musty smells as books begin turning liquid. Frames of windows have long since lost their paint and are swollen with northwest rain. Beyond the windows, decaying houses are themselves like a congregation of ghosts adrift against the gray sky. Those that still have paint have been repainted. Nothing original and bright remains. Only here and there, from a distant chimney, smoke from woodstove or fireplace rises above narrow streets.

  Cat looks askance at the Barrister. She almost does not want to say what she is about to say. “One of the Popes, long ago, grew old. He tried to stay alive by suckling the breasts of women.”

  The Barrister sits stunned and does not see the relevance. He is not surprised, because the Barrister reads history. Mostly, he is shocked because someone, even someone as scandalous as Cat, would speak of such a thing. “Pope Innocent the Eighth,” he murmurs, and his blush is vivid.

  “Because,” Cat says, “if we talk about Julie, let’s cut the guff.”

  “Men live by symbols,” I say. Better to say something innocuous than put up with this shocked silence.

  PERHAPS CAT is correct. Decline may well have started in the 1930s. Seven Sisters took decades to fade. The houses had been too well built. Many artists lingered. They made livings by working in this town, even as the town faded. And, with passing years, many lived to old age and died. The town, however, has no record of the deaths of Gabrielle or Julie.

  “And yet, we were certain they died,” I told the others. “I recall the rumors. Some said that Julie was murdered by an angry husband. Some said that he traveled to the Orient and never returned. The most likely rumor claimed that he stepped into eternity attended by the best physicians in the nation, and that the body was embalmed with rich spices and oils.”

  “Artists died as well,” the Barrister said. “As did others.”

  “It’s the manner in which people died.” Cat allows herself a shudder. “Think of the deaths, then think of the mansions.”

  “Few deaths were normal.” I am uneasy admitting what is so obviously true. “Most were not. Bodies did not develop dread disease. They withered from within. Something siphoned life. Life seemed purloined.”

  TODAY, AT THE beginning of a new century, Seven Sisters stand like crazed echoes. Our townspeople do not go there because of fear. The decaying mansions are now immersed in a forest of young fir and cedar, as untended lawns allowed forest to reclaim the land. The darkest and ugliest and completely broken mansion is Muse, its black paint washed away so that remaining boards are sodden and gray. Chimneys have tumbled, and the crystal windows have been shattered by vagrants, or, even more likely, by storm. Bare rafters decay in the rain.

  The others are in great disrepair. Gaudens has scattered its busts of the famous. One steps cautiously through young forest and is sometimes surprised by a marble face staring upward. Busts lie on the ground, Rembrandt and Beethoven.

  Perhaps the strangest is Michelangelo. Its large windows hang cracked and crazy before its galleries, and its stained-glass windows are now clear. Color, for over a century, has drained from those windows. In the galleries hang empty frames, or sometimes frames holding canvas that is blank. The frames no longer retain their gilt. A stark place, it is devoid of color, form, and even, some would say, perspective.

  The only sister that still shows color is Thespia. Perhaps the color comes only because of rusting iron railings. At any rate, Thespia stands intact and stained. On the darkest nights, lamplight still shines from the high rooms of Thespia, and for a generation now, people have assumed that vagrants camp there.

  Of late, however, we are no longer sure. Our qualms are the reason for the meeting of the Historical Society.

  “Because,” Cat says, “we are still alive.” She shrugs. “No big deal, because lots of people live long lives. But we are too active. We move like fifty-year-olds, and you gents are approaching ninety.”

  I am not happy, thinking what I’m thinking. “We are the last people alive,” I say, “who not only knew Julie, but who had intimate dealings with him.”

  “My accomplishments with men are private. My accomplishments with theater are sufficient. I have played alongside the Barrymores.” Cat speaks with quiet dignity. “I trod his stage, but Julie never came within a country mile.” She turns to the Barrister, and Cat is ready for a scrap.

  “I,” says the Barrister, “handled much of his legal work, but none of his dirty work.”

  “And I,” I tell them, “never cut a corner, never compromised a task, never substituted cheaper material, and never padded the account.” Since it sounds like bragging, I add, “It would have been poor business.”

  WHEN I WAKE in gray mornings, it
is always with a surge of untoward energy, like the twinge of static electricity. Or worse, it is like a false stimulus, the kick of concentrated caffeine or some other drug. It is not normal, this I know.

  When I step into our narrow streets, the town stands slanted, crazy and askew. One does not know whether to admit that this is a ghost town, or, more likely, a town profoundly under the control of spirits. Victorian houses stand like colorful ghosts New paint peels, but wood is silver, and not the muddy gray of Seven Sisters. No original color remains.

  Municipal buildings show a few lights. The town still owns a working fire truck. An aging policeman monitors our streets. The mayor runs the general store, which sees fewer customers each year. Perhaps the town survives because of eternal mist. Perhaps gray coastlines are most amenable to tormented and tormenting spirits.

  And, approaching the library, one’s heart cannot help but sadden. Weeds rise high around the windows. Library hours, these days, are from ten to two, Tuesdays. A volunteer librarian fights her losing battle against moisture, mold, and rot.

  “We find ourselves in a pickle,” the Barrister muses. “I had not realized we were the only ones left who had close dealings with Julie.”

  “Julie was morally venereal. Fully corrupt,” Cat tells the Barrister. “We have just confessed that we were not. Something to think about.”

  “It is true that I am too spry for my age,” the Barrister says. “Since we are granted this energy, let’s use it. I’ll research records at the courthouse. There’ll be no answer, but there may be clues.”

  “I will research sunsets,” Cat says, and I am not sure what she means.

  “I will walk the night,” I tell her. “I’m far too old to be playing it safe.”

  “Think of the arts,” Cat whispers, and I am certain she is talking to herself. “Think of sex, or rather, its reasons.”

  III

  IN A LAND of tormented spirits, it’s easy to be cowardly. I walk through twilight and admit to cowardice that has kept me from watching haunted movements. As twilight fades and darkness thickens our streets, whispers become palpable. Perhaps the whispers have always been there, and we have not listened. While turning away from soundless screams, we have ignored the whispers.

  Black moves against black. Beneath a shrouded moon, and far away, dark figures manifest, then fade to black. In yellow light from street lamps, movement appears where light melds to darkness. Something in our streets is not dead. Or, if that something is dead, it is propelled.

  Faces congregate, but seem separate from the black-on-black movement. I sorrow to think that I am used to faces of horror, of shocked children viewing injuries they cannot believe belong to them, of the faces of the murdered or the raped.

  And through the years, too many faces have been costumed: Pilgrims and Plantagenets, Harlequins and Hamlets. Faces fanciful, but crippled: a belled cap invisibly jingling above blind eyes, or stern eyes staring from beneath eyebrows above which the skull is broken and missing. These forms have appeared and rapidly faded. Perhaps their transience is why we ignored them.

  But it comes to me, walking our nighttime streets, that I may ignore them no longer. Survival of the body is not the question here. The question is survival of the soul. Their souls, if they still have them. Mine.

  “Think of the arts and sex,” Cat had said, “or think of their reasons.”

  “Better yet,” I murmur to the night, “think of a bad pope, plus a corrupt opportunist. What had they in common?”

  And, I answer, “They wanted to live past their natural span.”

  Our streets meander, but all eventually wend to Seven Sisters. When I stand among young trees and look at the mansions, it is almost always beneath a shrouded moon. Mist rises with the night. Clouds that form in the Aleutians roll down our coastline, sometimes bringing storm and wind.

  Whispers in the forest rarely assert. Instead, they consult. Movements that earlier seemed random, I now understand are direct and with purpose. It has taken two weeks of nights to understand that this town is the site of a ghastly war.

  Vengeance rides the wind, but it is not vengeance only. The dead make direct assaults on Seven Sisters. The assaults have something to do with survival. Survival of whom? Survival of what?

  I only know that as darkness seals the forest, movement focuses on Seven Sisters. While some apparitions momentarily appear, I now know it is necessary to follow whispers and murmurs; not apparitions. And, slightly distant, but always present, dark forms move like jet-black ink scrawled across the night.

  Whispers encircle Seven Sisters and wage a war of attrition, of surrounding, of gnawing. I was stunned at first, because I quickly understood that the collective army of whispers can actually direct the wind. Wind rises above treetops and concentrates on a single mansion. The concentration doubles the force of the wind, so that glass panes crack and shingles fly. Young tree branches are torn by wind. They are hurled against the mansion; a bombardment.

  Equally impressive, during nights of rain I huddle in my waterproof and watch funnels of rain whirl crazily through the darkness, to crash precisely on weak points of a mansion. Rain centers on cracks in windows, siding, roofs. Having no other weapons, the army of whispers directs weather like a conductor before a symphony.

  “MAYBE IT ISN’T war,” Cat says. “Maybe it’s theater.” She sits again in the library as the three of us consult.

  “You’re joking.”

  “Maybe,” Cat says, “ … but theater is involved, so maybe not.”

  She is particularly beautiful on this gray day, and hers is an unconscious beauty. There’s witchery in her smile. Her flowing gown of greens might seem showy on other women, but on Cat it seems only casual. It occurs to me that I have lived a passive life. What might it have been had it been lived beside a woman like Cat?

  “I’ll ask you to explain that theater business soon enough.” The Barrister studies notes on a yellow pad. “I have interesting information. It seems Julie once had plans, and his plans went astray.”

  The Barrister has never owned a reputation for vengeance. He owns a reputation for being just. Now, though, he smiles, and his smile is not kind. His small and wrinkled face seems as formal as his suit and starched white shirt. His dark tie is held in place with a diamond stickpin. The diamond glitters only a little sharper than the Barrister’s eyes. “That old saying … ‘You can’t take it with you’ … Julie tried. What he didn’t count on were other men just like himself.”

  The Barrister explains that Julie set up a foundation to administer his great fortune. The mission of the foundation was “to maintain and advance the aims of Seven Sisters in perpetuity.” As the twentieth century rolled past, ambitious men contrived to load the foundation’s board and directorship. They stole the fortune.

  “Not a drop left,” the Barrister says with some satisfaction. “Not a dram. In his grave, Julie lies as a pauper.”

  “If,” Cat says, “he is buried. Because if one is buried, it pays to be dead.”

  It is the second time she has shocked the Barrister. Of course, the Barrister has not been walking our midnight streets. He has not stood in sunrise and sunset.

  “If alive,” Cat murmurs, “he would be a desperate, desperate man. If alive, then what’s happening is both theater and war.”

  “If alive,” the Barrister whispers, “he would be more than a hundred and forty years old. Do not make jokes.” The Barrister knows full well that no one is joking.

  “You don’t get it,” Cat tells the Barrister. “The arts are not simple entertainment. They are life itself. You don’t get that, do you?” Cat is angry, though managing to seem only annoyed. She turns to me. “If there’s a war, there are two sides. What is the other side doing?”

  “I don’t know. The notion never occurred.” I know that Cat is going somewhere with this, but it lies beyond comprehension.

  “Find out,” Cat tells me, “because what’s alive at Seven Sisters is after us. At least part of it
is.” Her anger still lives, but is now subdued. “The war is now our war,” she says quietly. “It is defensive. Julie is still alive. He is suckling symbolic breasts.” To the Barrister, she says, “Did you think the arts are male?”

  The Barrister sits confused, as I do. Why this anger?

  “After us?”

  “In dawn and sunset, the horrors of this town appear.” Cat sounds like a grade-school teacher. “There is not a rape, a murder, a disemboweling, or a lynching that is not recalled. Those are most of the broken faces we see. That kind of manifestation no doubt happens in other places, places beyond the town. Manifestation probably happens in any place where the past is as dark as hate.” She shifts in her chair, pauses, and I can tell that she still controls anger. “Apparitions are all around us. Call them ghosts. Call them history. Makes no difference. But what happens at night is different.”

  “He is after us?” The Barrister, for perhaps the first time in his life, actually sounds fearful. “After us?”

  “Shakespeare had it right.” Cat once more muses to herself while ignoring the Barrister. “Storm and winds, thunder and Lear. War.”

  “I’ll find out what the other side is doing,” I tell her.

  IN DARKEST NIGHT, spirits may, or may not, endorse my movements. One thing is certain. The wind drops. Night is as still as glass, but like glass, it may shatter. Mist flows away from the forest and the sky. Stars appear like streams of cold fire. In this depth of darkness, Seven Sisters sit like hulks thrown on a rocky shore. Candlelight, or lamplight, glows on the fourth floor of Thespia. It is small illumination, but increases during an approach through the forest. Someone, or something, wields light.