Ammie, Come Home (13 page)

“We learned one of its limitations,” Ruth admitted. “Apparently it can't function in daylight.”

“Which lends some credence to one of the aspects of spiritualism that has always roused my loudest jeers—the statement that spirits are disturbed by too much light.”

“Right. When you stop to think about it, you may recall that the other manifestations—Sara's seizures, and the voice—have also occurred at night.”

“Swell,” Ruth said gloomily. “A house isn't much good, though, if you can't sleep in it.”

“That's not all we learned. Remember this?”

Bruce held up the red book. He had been cradling it in his lap like a baby.

“I'd almost forgotten that. You think we were supposed to find it?”

“I don't think it just happened to fall. You aren't in the habit of leaving heavy books balanced on the edge of the shelf, are you?”

“I don't remember ever touching that one,” Ruth admitted. “What is it? Myers'
History of Maryland.
No, it's one of Cousin Hattie's books. It's been there forever.”

“Not only was it moved, it lay open,” Bruce went on. “That might be accident; but I'm inclined to think that—whatever—could push a book off a shelf could also turn pages.”

“The proof of the pudding,” Pat said sententiously. “What does your prize say?”

Bruce opened the book.

“This section concerns a minor skirmish known as the Loyalist Plot.” He scanned the page, muttering. “Free the prisoners of war…hmmph. Yes. It happened in 1780, after the Revolution had begun. Contrary to what the high school history books tell us, not everybody in the Colonies was all that keen on independence. Some fanatical Tory citizens of Maryland decided to strike a blow for the King. They were planning to free the British prisoners at Frederick, and take the armory
at Georgetown.
The Patriots got wind of the plan, caught the leaders, and finally hanged them.”

The ensuing silence rang with speculation.

“I don't see it,” Ruth said finally.

“Hell's bells, it's just what we've been looking for.” Bruce closed the book and put it tenderly on the table. “We're looking for a General and a violent deed. Here's a war situation, divided loyalties—and a specific mention of Georgetown, for God's sake. Somebody—something—has kindly narrowed down our search through history, not only to a given period, but to a particular year!”

“But, Bruce,” Ruth protested, “there wasn't even a house here at that time.”

Bruce's face went blank—eyes round, mouth ajar. He looked so vacuous that Ruth, in a spasm of alarm, reached out and jogged his arm.

“Huh? No, I'm all right. I just remembered…. I'll be damned! I had just found that deed when the big bang came…. Sorry, I don't mean to be incoherent. Look here; I was poking around in that box of papers you gave me, and I found the photostat of a deed. It was a sale of land by Ninian Beall, the original proprietor of all this territory—he called it the Rock of Dumbarton—to one Douglass Campbell. And it was dated in the 1760's.”

Ruth poured coffee into her cup so briskly that it splashed. She felt as if her brains needed lubricating.

“Campbell,” she muttered. “One of the ancestors, obviously…. This house wasn't built till 1810. But there could have been an earlier house….”

“If there was, what happened to it?” Pat demanded. He reached for the coffeepot and Ruth pushed it toward him.

“Torn down, maybe,” she offered. “As the family prospered and needed bigger quarters. But Bruce—I thought ghosts were laid when the places they haunt are destroyed.”

“Expert authorities differ on that,” Bruce said oratorically, and then spoiled the effect by grinning. “You know, when I actually listen to the things we're saying, I can't believe it myself. No, but according to some of the tales I've read, the haunting is connected with a specific building; in others the very soil seems to be permeated with—whatever it is.”

“Whatever it is,” Sara repeated. “You all sit talking and talking, and all the time I keep remembering…that horrible Thing….”

Bruce caught Ruth's anxious eye and nodded.

“Yes. Well, we'd better talk about It. We weren't any of us too coherent the first time we tried.”

“It was so
cold,
” Ruth said, with a strong shudder. “Was It—that Thing—always there, invisible, when we felt the cold?”

“What a happy thought,” Bruce murmured. “Damned if I know. Pat?”

“I don't know either.”

The answer was brief, the tone flat. Bruce, after one penetrating look, picked up the coffeepot and tilted it. A feeble trickle of extremely black liquid dripped into his cup.

“Somebody forgot to fill it,” he said mildly, and rose to do so. Over his shoulder and over the rush of running water he said, “Still hedging, Pat, after this morning?”

“I'm trying desperately to keep an open mind,” Pat said stubbornly. “Ruth, don't get mad, but—I've seen too much of this sort of thing, all over the world.”

“But we all saw it!”

“What did we see? I could have kicked myself later,” he added bitterly. “But I was too damned shook up at first to think straight. You know what we did. We sat here shaking and gabbling and compared notes, one after the other. You especially must know, Bruce, how witnesses unconsciously influence one another. What we should have done was write out our separate impressions, without speaking to each other, and then compare them.”

“He's right,” Bruce said, over Ruth's indignant sniff. He came back to the table carrying the coffeepot, and plugged it in. “Absolutely right. I should have thought of it myself, but I'm damned if I apologize. If that was just a harmless little old hallucination, God save me from the real thing!”

“Even at that,” Pat went on doggedly, “we didn't actually see the same thing. Ruth saw smoke—dark, oily smoke. Bruce was babbling about the pillar of darkness by day—not a very apt analogy, if I remember my Bible—whereas, to Sara the thing had shape. It was man-high and roughly anthropomorphic.”

“It had arms,” said Sara, from behind a veil of hair. “Stubs, that were trying to turn into arms.”

“Thanks,” Pat said. “I'll dream about that one. Bruce, you can see my point, can't you?”

“Sure,” Bruce said agreeably. “We've got to be as critical and logical about the evidence as we can. Hell, I said that myself. But I do think you're leaning over backwards so far you're about to fall on your can. Excuse me, Ruth.”

“Don't be so darned polite,” Ruth said irritably. “You make me feel like a little gray-haired old lady. I know, I am, but still…. Pat, I don't care what Bruce thinks, I'm sick and tired of your attitude. Are you with us or not?”

“Oh, I'm with you,” Pat said unexpectedly; and smiled at their stupefied expressions. “At least I'm willing to extend the deadline you proposed. In fact, I'll prove my loyalty by pointing out something you seem to have overlooked. Ruth, did you leave the cellar door open before we went to bed?”

“Why, no; I haven't been in the cellar for ages. Pat! Do you think—”

“I think we may have a very busy ghost. Could the wind have blown the door open?”

“No, no, it catches quite firmly.”

Bruce licked his finger and drew an invisible stroke on the air.

“One to you, Pat. Ruth, I want to see your cellar.”

He streaked out the door without waiting for an answer. They caught up with him at the top of the cellar stairs.

“Where's the light switch?”

“At the bottom of the stairs.”

“Stupid place for it.”

“I know.” Ruth proffered a box of kitchen matches which she had picked up on the way out. “That's one of the reasons why I detest the basement. I haven't been down here since I moved in.”

“You must have,” Sara said, picking up her long skirts.

“Wait till he gets the light on; the stairs are steep. No, really, I haven't. The furnace runs like the proverbial charm. People come—” Ruth gestured vaguely— “you know, for meters and things. They go down, I stay up.”

The light went on down below, and Bruce called them to descend.

One bare bulb, hanging limply, shed a dismal light over a small cement-lined chamber, occupied only by the big bulk of the furnace and by two ancient iron sinks. There were three windows, all at the front of the house; they were small, even for basement windows, barred and high up.

“It's smaller than I expected,” Pat said, after a brief inspection. “Doesn't go under the whole house, does it?”

“No, just the dining room and kitchen half.”

“I can't see anything significant down here.” Bruce tugged at his beard. “No moldering, brass-bound chests filled with stolen pirate loot, no ancient portraits….”

“The place is far too damp for storage,” Ruth said practically. “That's why Hattie kept all her junk in the attic.”

“The attic.” Bruce gave his beard another tug, harder than he had intended. He let out a yelp. “Damn. There's so much to do—”

“I want to get out of this place,” Sara said distinctly.

“What's wrong?” Ruth asked anxiously. “Do you feel—”

“I wish you'd stop jumping at me every time I open my mouth,” Sara said. “I just don't like this place.”

“I don't either,” Pat said. His tone was so peculiar that Ruth transferred her anxious stare to him. He shook himself, like a dog coming out of the water, and smiled at her. “I didn't get my eight hours last night,” he said.

“You do look tired, all of a sudden.” Ruth took his arm. “Why don't you try to take a nap? Come on, everybody; I hate this place myself and we aren't getting anywhere just standing around.”

Bruce waited until they had gone up, and then turned out the light. When he emerged he was still worrying his beard, and Pat had to address him twice before he responded.

“I said, I'm sorry the basement was a bust. Maybe the open door was an accident after all.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Bruce said vaguely. “Pat, are you going to the university this morning?”

“Hadn't planned to. Why?”

“I want to shower and change, I'm short on sleep myself.” Bruce yawned so widely Ruth feared his jaws would split. “And I want to see Ted. His field is Colonial America.”

“Georgetown?”

“No. No, he won't know anything I need to know,” Bruce said stupidly. He yawned again. “Brrr. He will know what the sources are. And where they're kept—Archives, Library of Congress, the local historical association. Then I'll go there. Wherever there is.”

“Take the car, I won't need it. And Bruce—”

“Mmmm?”

“Don't take too many of those damned pep pills—or whatever kind of pills Ted is peddling these days along with advice on Colonial history.”

“Ted doesn't—”

“The hell he doesn't. Oh, he's generally harmless; that's why I've left him alone. And I know you don't generally indulge. Just don't start now—especially now. There's no need to push yourself; we've got time.”

“I hope you're right,” Bruce said.

“We'll start on the attic,” Ruth said, still slightly bewildered by the exchange. “And the closets. What are we supposed to be looking for, exactly?”

“Deeds, letters, old newspapers. I've been thinking,” Bruce said. “I did get the full blast from our not so friendly ghost, and I'm beginning to think it was no accident. If I had dropped that book, I'd have lost the page and we'd still be groping. So I suggest we look particularly for anything that mentions the name of Master Douglass Campbell.”

 

III

Bruce went upstairs to get his sweater and Ruth headed for the kitchen to clear, accompanied by Pat, who was making hopeful suggestions about more coffee. Ruth plugged the pot in and started to collect eggy plates. She was thinking that nothing is nastier than the remains of cold scrambled eggs when she realized that Sara had not followed her out. It was—she told herself—only concern that made her return, quietly, through the dining room, while Pat was looking for clean cups.

They stood in the hallway, and Ruth's approach would not have been heard if she had worn boots instead of soft slippers. Though Sara was a tall girl, she had to tilt her head back to look up into Bruce's face. Her hands lay on his breast, and his held her shoulders; the curve of her body, in the clinging softness of green velvet, was as eloquent as it was beautiful.

“I hate like hell to leave you alone,” Bruce said softly.

“I won't be alone. Ruth and Pat—”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know.”

“Say it, then.”

“I'm alone in a crowd of people, if you aren't there,” she said.

His mouth closed over hers, and her head fell back so that the hair streamed in a shining cascade over the arm that had pulled her against him.

Ruth had no conscious intention of moving or speaking; but she must have made some sound, for they broke apart as suddenly as they had come together. Bruce looked at Ruth and started to speak. Then he shrugged slightly, put Sara gently away from him, and left.

Sara stood with hands clasped. She looked, as even the plainest girl can look under some circumstances, utterly beautiful. Ruth said sharply, “Go upstairs and get dressed.”

Sara's eyes cleared and focused. She gave Ruth an incredulous look; but her aunt's expression told her that she had not heard wrong. She swung on her heel and fled up the stairs.

“What hit you?” Pat asked, from behind Ruth.

“Nothing,” she said shortly. Pat caught her by the elbow as she tried to pass him.

“Nothing my eye. Why so nasty about a couple of kids kissing?”

“I didn't say anything.”