David Ambrose: Superstition

The more he thought about Sam's manuscript, the less inclined he was to let anyone else see it. Legally and morally, he supposed, it was the property of Sam Towne's family. Or perhaps his colleagues at the university. But the fact that Sam had left no written instruction, no indication whatsoever as to whom he was actually addressing in the document, gave him surely, Ralph thought, some leeway in his choice of what to do with it.

The night before leaving the hotel and moving into the comfortable apartment he had found on Madison and Sixty-fourth, he took it from the hotel safe and burned it, page by page, in the metal wastepaper basket in his suite. The act made him feel that the whole episode was now over and a line drawn under it. What Sam Towne had written was something that no normal person could accept as any kind of literal truth. It was fantasy at best, the invention of an unbalanced mind. Characters like Ellie and Murray Ray were figures from cheap fiction, not real life. The Joanna Cross to whom the whole unlikely story was supposed to have happened had never existed. The whole thing was best ignored, and if possible forgotten. There was no point in causing needless trouble for himself or, above all, for Joanna. Sam Towne's story was the kind of superstitious nonsense, neither provable nor disprovable, that got printed in the tabloid rags you found on sale at supermarket checkouts. It could blight their lives forever if some sensational rumor of this kind got into circulation. He felt no remorse as he took the blackened ashes to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.

After that he had thought his troubles were over, until Joanna began to insist on returning to the house. Just once, she said. An exorcism. Not of the house but of herself, of her fear that she had been touched by something alien and unnatural that she could only leave behind by making this one last ritual visit.

Ralph didn't know why he felt such apprehension at the prospect, but he did.

“All right,” he said, “I can't stop you, but I can at least come with you. You aren't going to complain about that, I hope.”

“Of course you can come with me.” She slipped her arm through his and kissed him. “We'll go together, then leave it all behind.”

The following day was bright and clear, with a frosty sun that gave the city a sharp-edged clarity. They entered the house just after ten, descending first to the kitchen, then back up to the drawing room where the whole thing had begun. The damaged furniture had been removed, the carpets and light fittings put back in order, and a new mirror installed above the fireplace.

They went upstairs, into the music room, the guest rooms, and the small room at the back that Ralph had made his library. Finally they went upstairs to their bedroom and adjoining bathroom, and stood for some moments in silence as the sun streamed brightly through the windows.

“You know,” she said, “I'm beginning to regret we said we'd sell it.”

“I know,” he said, “me too. But I still think we should, don't you?”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose so. It couldn't ever be the same, could it?”

They started down the stairs again. They were halfway down when they heard the front door open and shut. They stopped and looked at each other. They both felt a momentary unease, but then he gave her a slightly shamefaced, reassuring grin.

“I forgot,” he said. “Madge Rheinhart called from the real estate office. She said she was bringing some people to see the house. She thinks they're serious. It's exactly what they're looking for, and they have the money. Let's go down and say hello.”

As they reached the hall, Joanna frowned. She didn't know what it was, but something about the short, elderly couple with the tall and elegant Miss Rheinhart seemed oddly familiar. The woman was wearing an expensive-looking fur coat, the man a camel-hair coat and a black fur hat. But when they turned as she and Ralph approached, she realized that she had never seen them before.

“Oh, Mr. and Mrs. Cazaubon,” Madge Rheinhart said, all charm and studied poise, “I didn't know if you'd still be here. I think we've just sold your house. Let me introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Ray.”

“Murray,” said the old man, removing his hat respectfully. “And this is my wife, Ellie.”

“All right, Adam,”Sam said.

“Wouldn't you like to try something new?”

The Ouija pointer moved again, spelling out “Such as?”

“Can you manifest yourself to us?”

The pointer pulled back enough to stab at “No.”

“Is there anything you can do to impress us?” Barry asked with good-natured impatience, and flashed a look of amused anticipation at the rest of the group.

There was a sudden bump from underneath the table. The group moved back sharply, and the table moved again. No one was touching it as, very slowly and steadily, it began to rise form the floor, revolving gently in the air until it was totally inverted. Nothing fell from the table as it planted its feet firmly on the ceiling in a grotesque defiance of gravity…