Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

Deep down inside her dazed consciousness, a small spark of outrage flared. True or false, a cosmic vision or a fancy of hysteria, that view of the universe was not to her liking. She would not surrender her will, even to good, without a voice in the decision. Linda made the greatest effort of her life-an effort all the harder because it was without a physical counterpart. It was like pushing, with her mind, against a barred and bolted door. Then something gave way, with an almost audible snap, and the room flashed back into focus.

Michael’s hand clasped hers; she felt the pain of his grasp now. He was not looking at her, but at Andrea; his face was as white as paper. As Linda turned dazed eyes on the old woman, Andrea’s voice faltered, caught, and stopped. The rain pounded on the roof in a roar of water. Linda saw the candle flames swaying like live things trying to escape from an attacker. The gritty boards of the floor were harsh against her bare legs. Only one residue of her vanished vision remained: the consciousness of pressures mounting, building up to a tension that could not hold. Like an overload on an electrical system…Sooner or later something would blow.

Andrea raised clawed hands to her throat. Her mouth gaped open. She made hoarse sounds, her eyes bulged. Then her hands fell, and for a dreadful moment she balanced on hands and knees, head dangling, like a sick animal. Knees and elbows gave way; she rolled over onto her side and lay still.

The storm rose up, howling with wild winds around the eaves, battering at the walls. As Linda sat frozen, staring at the old woman’s empty eyes and still face, Michael got to his feet. He staggered as his numbed legs took his weight, and then leaned forward over Andrea’s body. When he turned, Linda knew what he was going to say.

“She’s dead. We must-good God Almighty!”

The impact of the mighty wind was strong enough to break the window; but it was not wet air that came through the shattered pane in one great leap. Michael’s left arm swept out, catching Linda as she stood up, and throwing her back against the wall. Most of the candles died in the gust of rain and wind. The pair that flanked the crucifix wavered and held. Pressed against the same wall, her body aching with the violence of the impact, Linda saw him go down, buried under the solid black mass of the thing that had come through the window. It made no sound, none that she could hear over the agonized wail of the storm, which was whistling through some crevice in the broken glass with a noise like that of a pipe or whistle. And there was another sound-the sound of Michael’s gasps, as he fought for his life.

LINDA’S OUTFLUNG HAND TOUCHED AN OBJECT, and she seized it without looking to see what it was. She felt only its weight and convenience of shape, fit for grasping; she wanted a weapon, and that was how she used it, swinging it high and bringing it down with all her strength. If it struck home, she never felt the impact; at the same moment the air erupted like a volcano, deafening her with sound, blinding her eyes, shaking the floor under her feet. Swaying, her hands over her dazzled eyes, she heard the echoes roll and die. Echoes of thunder…The lightning bolt must have struck the roof, or something just outside.

Linda opened her eyes. Through the chaos of wind and rain, the two small lights on the wall burned steadily.

Andrea’s body lay huddled on the floor, grotesquely tumbled by the struggle that had gone on over it. Michael was on the floor too, flat on his back, his arm thrown up across his face. The curtains billowed at the broken window; a branch protruded like a bony arm through the gap between the torn curtains. The big oak tree outside the window had been the lightning’s target. There was nothing else. Whatever else had been in the room, it was gone.

On the floor beside Michael lay the crucifix, which she had used as a club. It was cracked, straight across the stem.

She went to Michael and bent over him. His eyes were closed. His sleeve, and the arm under it, were shredded. Blood dripped down and formed in a dreadful pool beside his head. But the gesture had saved his life. The dog had gone for his throat.

He opened his eyes when she touched him.

“It’s gone,” she said quickly, feeling him stiffen under her hands as memory returned.

“Gone? How?”

“I don’t know. I hit it-with that.” She touched the crucifix. “But the last lightning flash was so violent that it stunned me for a few seconds. It hit the tree outside the window, and-” She broke off, her eyes widening with a new fear. “Michael, there’s fire out there. I can see the light. The rain is stopping, too.”

The light was only a flickering redness, but as she spoke the curtains at the window caught in a flare of flame.

“That does it,” Michael muttered, struggling to stand. “The outside of the house is soaked, but inside it’s as dry as sawdust. It will go up in a second. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Get out!” She caught at his injured arm, heard him groan, and transferred her weight to support him as he swayed. “We can’t just walk out and leave the house to burn!”

“How can we stop it? The wood is dry with rot, and there are all these papers and books. Someone will see the flames and call the fire department. We must be away from here before anyone comes.”

“I can’t leave.”

“You aren’t afraid of-what’s out there, are you? It, or its master, will be too canny to stick around. The place will be swarming with people in five minutes. There couldn’t be a safer time for us.”

“It’s not that. I can’t leave…her.”

She was surprised to feel wetness on her face. Michael’s own face, bloodless with pain and shock, softened. They looked at the huddled body, roused to a terrible imitation of movement by the flickering light of the fire, which had seized avidly on the wooden walls.

“She’s dead,” Michael said. “There’s no doubt of that, Linda-I know. What else can you do for her? It’s purifying-fire.” He added, with a glance around the strange little room, “I know, she thought she was doing good. All the same, it seems fitting, somehow, that this should burn… Linda, please.”

His weight was heavy against her; the fact that he made no mention of his own need was the strongest appeal of all. With one last look at the still body, she turned, bracing him; as they passed through the door, the flames leaped from walls to floor. Half the room was ablaze. As they went down the passageway, Linda wondered why Andrea’s body had looked so small. Shrunken, almost, as if part of its substance had been sucked out.

One good look at Michael’s arm made Linda forget her other concerns, but he wouldn’t let her do much, except apply a bandage to stop the bleeding, and arrange a rough sling. A swig of brandy from the bottle on the table brought some of the color back to his face. It also brought him to his feet.

“Take the bottle,” he said, thrusting it at her. “Hurry. God, I can hear the fire now, it’s not raining hard enough to stop it. Let’s go, Linda.”

She lingered, looking affectionately at the old kitchen.

“I hate to see it go without making a fight to save it. The house is two hundred years old.”

“Yes, you’re a fighter, aren’t you. But pick your causes, for God’s sake. Do you want to be found here, with the house ablaze, a dead body, and signs of what the newspapers will be delighted to refer to as unholy practices? The least that can happen is that I’ll go to jail and Gordon will lock you up for the rest of your life. I can just see what his tame psychiatrists could do with this mess.”

It was brutal but effective. She turned, without another word, and started toward the door.