Frank De Felitta - Audrey Rose

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“I want this test stopped, Mr. Velie!” Bill had risen to his feet and was swaying uncertainly. His head felt ready to burst.

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“I want it stopped!” he demanded in a quavering voice, clutching the chair to keep from falling. “God damn it, do you hear me?”

“WHO ARE YOU?”

“Stop this test!” he shouted. “Mr. Velie, Judge Langley—do you hear me?”

But even if they heard, which was doubtful, none could act, for all sat mesmerized, shocked into silence by the specter that was slowly materializing on the other side of the mirror. For now the child was sitting bolt upright on the couch, eyes wide open and staring, body rigid, expression startled, hovering between terror and amusement, warily seeking a persona just beyond reach, moving tentatively, cautiously, toward the brink of some startling discovery.

“ WHO ARE YOU ?” the voice pursued relentlessly, pushing, thrusting, projecting her forward on her course.

Trembling, Bill tried to steady himself but collapsed into the chair, unable to speak, hardly able to breathe. He tried to close his eyes to blot out the scene but could not. He’d have to look. This was his doing—his goddamn doing—now, he’d have to watch it—all of it!

“WHO ARE YOU?”

Suddenly, her face froze. Her eyes—bright, expectant—grew even wider, beseeching some distant memory which now appeared to be at hand, within reach. Her breath quickened. The lines of tension around her mouth relaxed into a gradual smile, spreading softly, suffusing the face with a light of such shimmering joy, radiating a warmth of expression so tender, so grateful as to be unmistakably that of a homecoming. She had arrived—at last. After long and weary wanderings, she had finally come home.

“Mommy?” the child’s voice rang out, clear and sharp. “Mommy!” She laughed, in peal after peal of rapture and delight. “Mommy! Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

It was at this moment of arrival, of laughter and reunion, that Janice Templeton shut her eyes and began to softly recite the Prayer for the Dead.

“O God, Whose property is always to have mercy and to spare, we humbly beseech thee for the soul of the servant, Ivy Templeton, which thou hast this day commanded to depart out of this world.…”

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” the childish voice repeated in an unabating litany, but the tone underwent a subtle change. What had been gay, joyous, charged with a fervor of jubilation and rejoicing, gradually began to take on a note of anxiety and hysteria. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” the voice shrieked, graduating up the scale, in a rising glissando, from fear to fright to strident horror.

“… that thou wouldst not deliver her into the hands of the enemy, nor forget her unto the end, but wouldst command her to be received by the holy angels.…”

“Mommy-eeeeee!”

In the observation booth there was shocked silence. No one moved.

Bill peered feverishly through the murky glass, his eyes locked on the distant face, hardly able to focus. What the hell was happening to her? She was laughing one minute, and now—It was changing. The voice—the face—was changing. It was breaking apart—fragmenting into panels and lines of fear … terror—breathless, welling terror … like kids wear on their faces coming down a roller coaster. That was it, she was swaying back and forth like she was moving—no, like the world around her was moving—like the couch was moving and the world was rushing by her.…

“Mommy-eeeeee!” The word got swallowed up in a scream so high-pitched and intense that the wall speaker crackled and popped.

“My God,” someone in the room whispered as the screams sustained a strident peak and the swaying became more pronounced—back and forth, from side to side, forcing her hands to cling to the arms of the couch and her body to fight to stay upright, to fight this power that seemed determined to send her reeling through the air.…

“It’s all right, Ivy!” Dr. Lipscomb said nervously.

“Eeeeeeeeeee!”

“It’s all right, Ivy!” he repeated, his voice rising, mustering sternness. “You will leave this memory now! You will move farther back in time away from this memory! Farther back in time, Ivy!”

“Mommy-eeeee!” shrieked the voice as her body swayed and teetered to and fro, wildly now, the muscles of her face drawn into knots, her head zigzagging from side to side, her fingers desperately clutching the fabric of the couch to keep from being hurled into space.

“You will move away from this memory, Ivy! When I count to three, you will move back in time. One … two … three!”

“Mommmm-eee! Crash-crash-crash-crash!”

“One … two … three! Do you understand me, Ivy!”

“Not Ivy!” a voice in the observation room whispered hoarsely. A voice that was Elliot Hoover’s. “She’s not Ivy!”

“Moooommmm-eeeee! Crash-crash-crash-crash!”

Her scream, rising to decibels of a stridency that overloaded speakers and eardrums alike, pierced the air in a single sustained note as her body, incapable of longer resisting its own violent, turbulent oscillations, thrust itself upward from the couch as if impelled by some irresistible power, sending her staggering to her feet and holding her suspended in space momentarily—arms outstretched, eyes bulging, the scream dying in her throat—before dropping her to the floor with a shocking suddenness and force that could be heard through the speakers. Head striking first, her body tumbled over in a bruising, somersault, whereupon she remained in a crumpled ball, writhing and trembling in what seemed only partial consciousness—eyes half closed, a line of blood trickling from her mouth, and muted, pained moans of a terribly injured person rising and falling in her throat.

The effect upon the audience was staggering and unmistakable.

“… it was smoking, and one of the back wheels was still turning.…”

All around Janice, chairs scraped. People rose. A deathly silence held as all awaited the terrible aftermath.

“O Lord, deliver her from the rigor of thy justice. O Lord, deliver her from long-enduring sorrow.…”

Dr. Lipscomb, stunned into speechlessness along with the others, recovered his professional presence and, dropping to his knees, placed his trembling fingers on the child’s pulse. His face mirrored concern. His voice ratified it.

“You will now awaken, Ivy!” he commanded in a tone that wavered with uncertainty. “When I count to five, you will awaken and feel rested and well. One … two … three … four … five.… Awaken, Ivy!”

The child lay on her back, eyes closed, breathing hard, writhing moaning.

“You will obey me, Ivy! At the count of five, you will awaken!”

“Not Ivy, not Ivy,” Hoover muttered in a fever of anxiety.

“One … two … three … four.…”

“O Lord, deliver her from the cruel flames—”

“… five!”

Her eyes popped open. She sat bolt upright. Weak. Exhausted. Panting. Intensely alert. Senses keened. Eyes widening with alarm. Nostrils flaring. Smelling. Head twisting about, rubber-necking, startled, birdlike, sensing an imminent danger. Face contorting in a kaleidoscope of expressions—fear, dismay, panic, horror—

“… then … there was an explosion … not loud … like a puff … and all at once the car was swallowed up in flames.…”

The scream burst forth like a gunshot, built to an incredible crescendo, and sustained.

Behind the mirror, bodies flinched and breaths expelled to melt the inner tension.

Bill was on his feet, not knowing it, drawing the sight into his stunned mind. He felt something tightening in his chest.