Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

“I was leaning on the fence, thinking, when-there it was. I saw it quite distinctly; the light was fading, but it seemed to stand out, as if something shone behind it. I was frightened, but only because it appeared so suddenly, out of nowhere, and because it was a fierce-looking dog and a stranger. Honestly, Michael, I couldn’t be mistaken about that, I really like dogs, I was friends with all the neighbors’ pets… Well, I knew better than to run, but I retreated as quickly as I could. It didn’t follow me. Not until later did I realize that it hadn’t moved, or made a sound, the whole time. It just stood there, looking at me…”

“When did you start to think that it might not be a real dog?”

“Not that time. Not even when a search failed to turn up any sign of such an animal. Gordon was alarmed when I told him,” she said expressionlessly. “He insisted on looking for it, right then, even though it was almost dark. He and the yard servants searched again next morning, and he called all the neighbors, and the police, to see if anyone else had reported seeing it. No one had. But the worst was…I told you the ground was soft and wet. When they searched the field where I had seen it, they found no prints.”

From Michael’s expression, she realized that, despite his comments, he had been clinging to the hope that the creature was material. This piece of news hit him hard.

“How could prints show on grass?”

“There were large bare patches,” she said inexorably. “Something would have shown, somewhere.”

“I see. But that wouldn’t be enough, in itself, to convince you that you were having hallucinations.”

“No. I didn’t start thinking that until Jack Briggs failed to see it, the next time it came.”

“If he wasn’t looking…”

“It ran straight across the terrace while we were looking out the drawing-room window. It went fast, but it was in sight for several seconds. That’s a long time, Michael.”

“Long enough. Any other non-witnesses?”

“Several. My maid, for one. That was from an upstairs window, of course, and it was pretty dark.”

“Not easy to see in that kind of light, especially if she had already been told you were suffering from hallucinations. Most people see only what they expect to see.”

“Gordon told her something,” Linda said doubtfully. “I think he must have warned all the servants about me. They started treating me peculiarly about that time. But God knows I was acting pretty peculiarly anyhow.”

“I imagine he pays excellent salaries, doesn’t he? Yes; money, and his famous charm, could convince them of anything he wanted them to believe.”

The room was full of cats by this time-fat cats, thin cats, striped, spotted, and Siamese. One of them jumped onto the table, with that uncanny suggestion of teleportation that surrounds a cat’s suave quickness, and Linda stood up, overturning her chair.

“What are you trying to prove?” she demanded wildly. “You still don’t believe in it, do you? You think it’s real.”

Michael stroked the cat, a round orange creature, which was investigating his half-empty plate.

“That shouldn’t be the main point, for you,” he said mildly.

“I’m grateful, don’t think I’m not. Whether it’s real or just a plain apparition, it isn’t a figment of my imagination, or you wouldn’t have seen it too. You aren’t the suggestible type. You’ve come a long way to bolster me up, to support me. But you’d stop-you couldn’t go on-if you knew what I really believe…”

The lights flickered and faded, leaving the room in brown obscurity; and a violent clap of thunder seemed to rock the foundations of the house. Linda covered her face with her hands. On the roof, a thousand minuscule feet began dancing. The rain had started.

Michael stood up. He had scooped up the cat, to keep it out of his food; and the animal, already full, hung complacently from his hands with a full-moon smirk on its fat face. The contrast between its furry blandness and Michael’s drawn features turned Linda’s cry of alarm into a semi-hysterical gasp of laughter.

“Stop it,” Michael said sharply. “You’re losing your grip-no wonder, in this place…”

He turned, looking helplessly around the room, which still swam in an evil dimness. The stuffed monster dangling from the ceiling seemed to grin more broadly, and the heavy beams seemed to sag. Outside the window, the night was livid with the fury of the storm. But Linda noticed how gentle his hands were, holding the unwanted bundle of cat. Finally he put it back on the table, with the air of a man who is abandoning lesser niceties, and sat down firmly on his chair. The cat started licking his plate. Michael regarded it curiously.

“The cats are calm enough now,” he said. “They blew their stacks when it was outside.”

Linda dropped back into her chair.

“Cats are traditionally sensitive to influences from the other side,” she said dully.

Michael’s head turned sharply; on the verge of speaking, he caught himself, and she knew that his comment, when he did speak, was not the one he had meant to make.

“It only appears at dusk, or in a dim light?”

“Yes. Michael, I know what you’re trying to do. But it won’t work. The fact that the thing only comes at night is just as much confirmation of my theory as of yours.”

“You think it’s supernatural, then,” he said calmly. “Something from-the dark on the other side.”

“Don’t! Why did you say that?”

“Never mind, I’ll get to that later. All right, so it’s supernatural. The supernatural has many forms. What precisely is this thing? A hound of hell, à la Conan Doyle? A manifestation of hate and ill will? The old Nick in one of his standard transformations? A werewolf, or a…”

His voice trailed off and his eyes widened. Linda nodded. She felt quite numb now that the moment of truth was upon her, but she felt no impulse to conceal that truth. Even if he stood up and walked out of the house, leaving her more alone than she had ever been, she had to be honest with him.

“The word is too simple,” she said. “But-yes. That’s what it is. It’s Gordon.”

The lights had returned to normal. The storm muttered more softly, held in abeyance. Linda sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching Michael as he paced up and down. He was followed by an entourage of interested cats; but the sight of Michael as a feline Pied Piper did not seem amusing. His distress was too great.

“I can’t buy it,” he said, swinging around to face her. “I’ve believed in enough mad things in the last few hours so that you’d think a little detail like that wouldn’t stick in my craw. But it does.”

“I didn’t expect you to believe it,” she said.

His face twisted, as if a sudden pain had struck him. She watched the spasm with dull disinterest, wondering why he felt such distress. The lethargy that gripped her was pleasant, compared to what she had endured; she knew how a patient must feel after a critical session with his analyst, or a penitent after a bad session in the confessional-drained, empty, oddly at peace.

“How about settling for an abstract manifestation of evil?” Michael suggested hopefully, and won a wan smile in response. “I’m serious,” he insisted. “Half serious, anyhow…Linda, you’ve been through a terrible strain, it would be a miracle if your nerves were normal. I’m not suggesting that you’re insane, I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if I thought so. But isn’t it possible that you’ve concocted this-this fantastic theory out of a very real, legitimate fear of Gordon?”

She looked up, a faint spark of interest in her face.

“You’re willing to admit that I might have a legitimate fear of a paragon like Gordon?”