Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

“I don’t know what the word means,” Michael said quietly.

“No more do I.”

“Then why the hell did you bring it up? No, I don’t think she’s running to anyone, or anything-unless it’s safety. She’s running away from something. Not her husband-”

“How do you know?”

“Well, for God’s sake! Modern women don’t run away from husbands, they divorce them. Besides, he-he’s devoted to her. Desperately worried about her. He’s out in this filthy rain now, looking for her. He was here, not five minutes before she came.”

“He was?”

“I wish to God you people could carry on a normal conversation instead of trying to make it into a Socratic dialogue,” Michael said irritably. “Yes, he was. And before you can ask, I’ll tell you. I don’t know why he should expect to find her here-that’s the truth, Galen. But he did. He says she’s run away before-to other men.”

“What other men?”

“How the hell should I know? I didn’t ask.”

“I think I might have asked,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “If a nervous husband told me I was number three on any list, I’d be curious about my predecessors. All right, never mind that. She runs away. He pursues.”

“You make it sound…Galen, I tell you the girl is off her head.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, for-”

“All I’m trying to indicate is the stupidity of jumping to conclusions. As a writer you ought to know that a single set of observed facts may be capable of varying interpretations. And you know the human tendency to misinterpret evidence in terms of a preconceived theory. So far, all you’ve conveyed to me is that the woman is running away from something she fears. Either her husband is the source of her fear, or he is closely connected with it. Certainly it’s possible that her fears are unjustified or imaginary; that she is, as you so elegantly put it, off her head. But it is also possible that she fears a real danger, one which even you would admit to be a legitimate cause of fear if you knew what it was. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

“I know what she’s afraid of,” Michael said reluctantly. “And it-isn’t there.”

“What is it?”

“A dog. A black dog. She saw it one night and it terrified her so badly she went into a fainting fit.”

“You didn’t see it?”

“It happens that I didn’t see it. But if I had, if it was real and not a figment of her imagination-so what? The cause is inadequate to explain her response. I tell you, the girl was frantic with fear.”

The doctor did not respond at once. Linda, who had followed the discussion with growing hope, sagged back. For a while he had sounded like a possibility, a potential convert. But Michael’s last statement was unarguable.

“I could argue that,” the doctor said after a while. “But I’ll accept your hypothesis, if only to keep you from bellowing at me.”

“My hypothesis? I haven’t got one.”

“You sure as hell have. And it’s time you dragged it out into the open and had a look at it. Your voice, when you said, ‘A black dog,’ was significant. What does that phrase suggest to you? No fair thinking about it-give me some images.”

“The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Michael said promptly. “Luminous eyes, jaws dripping with phosphorescence…The black dog of the Celts, that presages doom…Agrisly story I read when I was a kid, about a werewolf…”

“Now I,” said Galen, “had a black dog once. A big black mutt who followed me everywhere I went and chewed up my shoes and hid under the bed when my mother scolded him.”

“All right,” Michael muttered. “I see your point, damn your eyes. None of my dogs was black. But it’s not just a personal bias, Galen. It’s partly the emotional atmosphere in that damned house. There are so many sick feelings-between Linda and that foul secretary, between Linda and the old hag who calls herself a white witch. When I looked back on the weekend, it seems to me that we talked of nothing but evil, and demonology, and Satan. The house is big and brightly lit, it has every modern luxury; but it stinks of ugly emotions. It’s a sick house. Now laugh.”

“Why should I? That’s the most important thing you’ve said yet. You are neither stupid nor insensitive-”

“Thanks a lot.”

“-and emotional atmospheres can be felt, I’d never deny that. The origins of the feeling are another matter.”

“I know. And since I don’t believe in mental telepathy, I’ve been trying to remember what small, unnoticed clues I must have seen. There must have been something; I don’t ordinarily come over psychic.”

The springs of the armchair creaked.

“I must go,” the doctor said. “I’ll barely make it as it is. I’ll call you when I get back, Michael.”

“But what am I going to do?”

“What are you looking for, free advice? It’s your problem.”

“Consoling as always.”

“You’ve already made up your mind what to do. You just want me to agree with you. You’re planning to telephone the bereaved husband and tell him his wife was here?”

“I have no choice about that.”

“Perhaps not. Good-bye, Michael.”

“Here’s your briefcase… Your Olympian detachment is all very well, but this isn’t a remote, academic problem. She’s on the loose right this minute, contracting pneumonia by walking around in the rain without any shoes on, if nothing worse. I don’t like the role of informer; but for her own safety I must tell Randolph that she was here. Maybe he can-”

“ Randolph?”

Linda heard the sound of the front door opening. The voices had gotten fainter; but the change in the doctor’s tone came from some other cause than distance.

“This is Gordon Randolph’s wife you’ve been talking about?”

“I thought I shouldn’t mention names.”

“No…Damn it, I’m late now. I’ll break my usual rule, Michael, and give you one word of advice, if you’ll walk downstairs with me. If you should hear anything…”

Linda was on her knees, oblivious of the danger of discovery; but strain as she might, she could make out no further words, only a mutter of voices as the two men descended the stairs. She crawled out of her hiding place, over the prostrate form of Napoleon, who snarled affably at her as she passed. Her cramped muscles complained as she stood upright. Overriding physical discomfort was the agony of indecision that racked her mind.

She went to the door and looked warily out into the empty living room. The lights still burned and the front door stood open. Michael was a trusting soul… From below, amplified by the funnel of the stairwell, the rumble of voices floated up.

Briefly she fought the wild, dangerous urge to rush down the stairs and catch him before he left. But she knew she couldn’t take the chance. They all talked that way, the ones who considered themselves liberal and sophisticated; but when it came to action, they balked at the final conclusion. If she could only talk to him at her leisure, with some means of escape at hand in case he turned out to be the broken reed all the others had been… Too late for that now. Too late for anything but escape.

In her arms she still clutched the coat and purse, which she had been holding for so long. Darting across the room, she scooped up her shoes and went out the door. She reached the floor below just before Michael’s head came into view, and cowered in the shadow of the stairs as he went past. If he had turned his head he would have seen her; but he went quickly, intent on his next move. The telephone; Gordon. And Gordon would see through her trick. He knew her habits and he wouldn’t accept the obvious without checking. She would have to hurry. Gordon would come. Hurry…