Karl Wagner - Why Not You and I?

“Well, of course I’ve only read your serious stuff. The mysteries you’ve had in paperback, and the two books on the occult.”

“Do you like to read up on the occult?” Russ asked, mentally correcting her —three books on the occult.

“Well, I never have…you know…believed in ghosts and like that. But when all this started, I began to wonder — so I checked out a few books. I’d always liked Mr Stryker’s mystery novels, so I was especially interested to read what he had to say on the subject of hauntings. Then, when I found out that he was a local author, and that he was looking for material for a new book — well, I got up my courage and wrote to him. I hope you didn’t think I was some sort of nut.”

“Not at all!” Stryker assured her. “But suppose we sit down and have you tell us about it. From your letter and our conversation on the phone, I gather this is mostly poltergeist-like phenomena.” Gayle Corrington’s flair-legged gown brushed against the varnished hardwood floor as she led them to her living room. A stone fireplace with raised hearth of used brick made up one wall. Odd bits of antique ironware were arranged along the hearth; above the mantelpiece hung an engraved double-barrelled shotgun. Walnut panelling enclosed the remainder of the room — panelling, not plywood, Russ noted. Chairs and a sofa were arranged informally about the Couristan carpet. Russ dropped onto a cream leather couch and looked for a place to set his drink.

Stryker was digging a handful of salted nuts from the wooden bowl on the low table beside his chair. “Suppose you start with the history of the house?” he suggested.

Sipping nervously from her glass, Gayle settled crosslegged next to the hearth. Opposite her a large area of sliding glass panels opened onto the sun-bright back yard. A multitude of birds and two fat squirrels worked at the feeders positioned beneath the pines. The dogs sat on the patio expectantly, staring back at them through the glass door.

Gayle drew up her freckled shoulders and began. “Well, the house was put up about ten years back by two career girls.”

“Must have had some money,” Russ interposed.

“They were sort of in your line of work — they were medical secretaries at the psychiatric unit. And they had, well, a relationship together.”

“How do you mean that?” Stryker asked, opening his notepad. Mrs Corrington blushed. “They were lesbians.”

This was heavy going for a Southern Belle, and she glanced at their composed expressions, then continued. “So they built this place under peculiar conditions— sort of man and wife, if you follow. No legal agreement as to what belonged to whom. That became important afterward.

“Listen, this is, well, personal information. Will it be OK for me to use just first names?”

“I promise you this will be completely confidential,” Stryker told her gravely.

“I was worried about your using this in your new book on haunted houses of the South.”

“If I can’t preserve your confidence, then I promise you I won’t use it at all.”

“All right then. The two women were Libby and Cass.”

Mandarin made a mental note.

“They lived together here for about three years. Then Libby died. She was only about thirty.”

“Do you know what she died of?” Russ asked.

“I found out after I got interested in this. How’s the song go—‘too much pills and liquor.’”

“Seems awfully young.”

“She hadn’t been taking care of herself. One night she passed out after tying one on, and she died in the hospital emergency room.”

“Did the hauntings start then?”

“Well, there’s no way to be sure. The house stood empty for a couple of years afterward. Legal problems. Libby’s father hadn’t cared for her lifestyle, and when she died he saw to it that Cass couldn’t buy Libby’s share of the house and property. That made Cass angry, so she wouldn’t sell out her share. Finally they agreed on selling the house and land, lock, stock and barrel, and dividing the payment. That’s when I bought it.”

“No one else has ever lived here, then?”

Gayle hesitated a moment. “No — except for a third girl they had here once — a nurse. They rented a third bedroom to her. But that didn’t work out, and she left after a few months. Otherwise, I’m the only other person to live here.”

“It seems a little large for one person,” Stryker observed.

“Not really I have a son in college now who stays here over breaks. And now and then a niece comes to visit. So the spare rooms are handy.”

“Well, what happened after you moved in?”

She wrinkled her forehead. “Just… well, a series of things. Just strange things…

“Lights wouldn’t stay on or off. I used to think I was just getting absent-minded, but then I began to pay careful attention. Like I’d go off to a movie, then come back and find the carport light off — when the switch was inside. It really scared me. There’s other houses closer now, but this is a rural area pretty much. Prissy’s company, but I don’t know if she could fight off a prowler. I keep a gun.”

“Has an electrician ever checked your wiring?”

“No. It was OK’ed originally, of course.”

“Can anyone break in without your having realized it?”

“No. You see, I’m worried about break-ins, as I say I’ve got double locks on all the doors, and the windows have special locks. Someone would have to break the glass, or pry open the woodwork around the doors — leave marks. That’s never happened.

“And other things seem to turn on and off. My electric toothbrush, for instance. I told my son and he laughed — then one night the light beside his bed flashed off.”

“Presumably you could trace all this to electrical disturbances,” Russ pointed out.

Gayle gestured toward the corner of the living room. “All right. See that wind-up Victrola? No electricity. Yet the damn thing turns itself on. Several times at night I’ve heard it playing — that old song, you know…”

She sang a line or two: “Come back, blue lady come back. Don’t be blue anymore…”

Stryker quickly moved to the machine. It was an old Victrola walnut veneer console model, with speaker and record storage in the lower cabinet. He lifted the hinged lid. It was heavy. Inside, the huge tonearm was swomg back on its pivot.

“Do you keep a record on the turntable normally?”

“Yes. I like to show the thing off. But I’m certain I haven’t left ‘Blue Skirt Waltz’ on every time.”

“It’s on now.”

“Yes, I leave it there now.”

“Why not get rid of the record as an experiment?”

“What could I think if I found it back again?”

Stryker grinned. He moved the starting lever with his finger. The turntable began to spin.

“You keep this thing wound?” Russ asked.

“Yes,” Gayle answered uneasily Curtiss swung the hinged tonearm down, rested the thick steel needle on the shellac disc.

I dream of that flight with you

Darling, when first we met…

“Turn it off again — please!”

Stryker hastily complied. “Just wanted to see what was involved in turning it on.”

“Sorry,” Gayle apologized. “The thing has gotten on my nerves, I guess. How about refills all around?”

“Fine,” Stryker agreed, taking a final chew on his lime twist.

When their hostess had disappeared into the kitchen with their glasses, he murmured aside to Mandarin: “What do you think?”

Russ shrugged. “What can I say from a few minutes talking, listening to her? There’s no blatant elevation of her porcelain titer, if that’s what you mean.”