Anne Rice - The witching hour

“All her life, Rowan has confronted this split between the natural and the aberrant,” said Aaron. “Rowan is essentially a conservative human being. And creatures like Lasher don’t change one’s basic nature. They can only work upon the traits which are already there. No one wanted that lovely white-dress wedding more than Rowan did. No one wants the family more than Rowan. No one wants that child inside her more than she.”

“She doesn’t even talk about the baby, Aaron. She hasn’t even mentioned its existence since I came home. I wanted to tell the family tonight at the party, but she doesn’t want me to do it. She says she’s not ready. And this party, I know it’s an agony for her. She’s just going through the motions. Beatrice put her up to it.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I talk about the baby all the time. I kiss her and call it Little Chris, the name I gave it, and she smiles, and it’s like she’s not Rowan. Aaron, I’m going to lose her and the baby if she loses her battle with him. I can’t think past that. I don’t know anything about mutations and monsters and … and ghosts that want to be alive.”

“Go home, and stay there with her. Stay near her. That’s what they told you to do.”

“And don’t confront her? That’s what you’re saying?”

“You’ll only force her to lie, if you do that. Or worse.”

“What if you and I were to go back there together and try to reason with her, try to get her to turn her back on it?”

Aaron shook his head. “She and I have had our little showdown, Michael. That’s why I made my excuses for this evening to Bea. I’d be challenging her and her sinister companion if I came there. But if I thought it would do any good, I’d come. I’d risk anything if I thought I could help. But I can’t.”

“But Aaron, what makes you so certain?”

“I’m not one of the players now, Michael. I didn’t see the visions. You saw them. Julien and Deborah spoke to you. Rowan loves you.”

“I don’t know if I can stand this.”

“I think you can. Do what you have to do to stand it. And remain close to her. Tell her in some way-silent or otherwise-that you are there for her.”

Michael nodded. “All right,” he said. “You know it’s like she’s being unfaithful.”

“You mustn’t see it like that. You mustn’t become angry.”

“I keep telling myself the same thing.”

“There’s something else I have to say to you. It probably won’t matter in the final analysis. But I want to pass it along. If anything happens to me, well, it’s something that I’d like you to know for what it’s worth.”

“You don’t think anything is going to happen?”

“I don’t honestly know. But listen to what I have to say. For centuries, we’ve puzzled over the nature of these seeming discarnate entities. There isn’t a culture on earth which doesn’t recognize their existence. But nobody knows what they really are. The Catholic Church sees them as demons. They have elaborate theological explanations for their existence. And they see them all as evil and out to destroy. Now all that would be easy to dismiss, except the Catholic Church is very wise about the behavior and the weaknesses of these beings. But I’m straying from the point.

“The point is, that we in the Talamasca have always assumed that these beings were very similar to the spirits of the earth-bound dead. We believed or took for granted that both were essentially bodiless, possessed of intelligence, and locked in some sort of realm around the living.”

“And Lasher could be a ghost, that’s what you’re saying.”

“Yes. But more significantly, Rowan seems to have made some sort of breakthrough in discovering what these beings are. She claims that Lasher possesses a cellular structure, and that the basic components of all organic life are present in him.”

“Then he’s just some sort of bizarre creature, that’s what you’re saying.”

“I don’t know. But what has occurred to me is that maybe the so-called spirits of the dead are made of the same components. Maybe the intelligent part of us, when it leaves the body, takes some living portion with it. Maybe we undergo a metamorphosis, rather than a physical death. And all the age-old words-etheric body, astral body, spirit-are just terms for this fine cellular structure that persists when the flesh is gone.”

“It’s over my head, Aaron.”

“Yes, I am being rather theoretical, aren’t I? I suppose the point I’m trying to make is … that whatever this being can do, maybe the dead can also do. Or perhaps, even more important-even if Lasher possesses this structure, he could still be a malevolent spirit of someone who once lived.”

“That’s for your library in London, Aaron. Some day, maybe, we can sit by the fire in London and talk about it together. Right now I’m going to go home, and I’m going to stay with her. I’m going to do what you’ve told me to do, and what they’ve told me to do. Because that’s the best thing I can do for her. And for you. I can’t believe she’s going to let that thing hurt you, or hurt me, or hurt anyone. But like you said, the best thing I can do is be near at hand.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Aaron said. “But I can’t stop thinking about what those old men said. About being saved. Such a strange legend.”

“They were wrong about that part. She’s the doorway. I knew it somehow or other when I saw that family tomb.”

Aaron only sighed and shook his head. Michael could see that he was dissatisfied, that there were more things he wanted to consider. But what did they matter now? Rowan was alone in that house with that being, and the being was stealing her away from Michael, and Rowan knew all the answers now, didn’t she? The being was telling her the meaning of everything, and Michael had to go home to her.

He watched anxiously as Aaron rose, a little stiffly, and went to the closet for Michael’s coat and gloves.

Michael stood in the entranceway staring at the Christmas tree, with its lights burning brightly even in the light of the day.

“Why did it have to begin so soon?” he whispered. “Why now, at this time of year?” But he knew the answer. Everything that was happening was connected, somehow. All these gifts were connected with some final dénouement, and even his powerlessness was connected.

“Please be very careful,” said Aaron.

“Yeah, I’ll be thinking of you tomorrow night. You know, to me Christmas Eve has always been like New Year’s Eve. I don’t know why. Must be the Irish blood.”

“The Catholic blood,” said Aaron. “But I understand.”

“If you break open that brandy tomorrow night, hoist one for me.”

“I will. You can count on it. And Michael … if for any reason under God you and Rowan want to come here, you know that the door is open. Night or day. Think of this as your refuge.”

“Thank you, Aaron.”

“And one more thing. If you need me, if you really want me to come and believe that I should, well, then, I shall.”

Michael was about to protest, to say that this was the best place for Aaron, but Aaron’s eyes had moved away; his expression had brightened, and suddenly Aaron pointed to the fanlight window over the front door.

“It’s snowing, Michael, look, it’s really snowing. I can’t believe it. It isn’t even snowing in London, and look, it’s snowing here.”

He opened the door and they walked out on the deep front veranda together. The snow was falling in large flakes, drifting with impossible slowness and grace, down through the windless air towards the earth. It was drifting down onto the black branches of the oaks, coating them with a thick shining layer of whiteness, and making a deep white path between the two rows of trees, all the way to the road.