Лоуренс Блок - Ariel

She pulled up in front of the house, killed the engine. Their next house, she thought, would damned well have a driveway.

It took her several trips to empty the car of groceries. She thought of calling Ariel to help but it was easier to do it herself than to shout over the flute music that filled the entire house. When the last bag was stacked on the kitchen counter she sighed heavily and leaned against a cupboard, trying to catch her breath. She listened to the music and shuddered. How could the child get that much volume out of a tinny little flute?

She began putting groceries away, but before she had emptied a bag the kitchen started to oppress her. She decided she needed a cup of coffee and a cigarette and went to the stove to put the kettle on.

And of course the pilot light was out. All three stove-top pilot lights were out, and the oven pilot as well. It seemed to her that the gas smell was heavier than it had ever been and she worried that this time it might be dangerous to light a match.

It took her two matches just to light the oven pilot. The first went out as she probed within the oven, but the second did the job. She closed the heavy oven door gently to avoid extinguishing the pilot again, then lit the pilot lights for each of the three pairs of burners. Then she tried each burner to make sure they all worked properly.

She put the kettle on.

Damned old house. Crazy house, with a stove that turned itself off and on according to its private whims. Crazy old house with music cutting through walls and ceilings like a sword slashing a silk shawl.

She stood at the counter, feeling the damp floor through her shoes, and measured instant coffee into a mug. David’s breakfast dishes were washed and put away, she noticed, and she was sure she had left them undone. Of course a kitchen that could blow out pilot lights of its own accord might wash dishes by itself if it felt like it.

She felt herself smiling at the thought. No, the child must have washed the dishes. Unless the ghost had taken to walking by day.

The ghost...

She could remember more clearly now. She had awakened sometime in the dim middle of the night, waking from a sleep she felt must be too deep for her to have been dreaming. And the woman, wrapped in her shawl, was in her usual position in the corner of the room. Although the drug she’d taken had clouded her mind, she felt her visual perception was good... the woman was more clearly defined than she had been the night before.

Once again, the woman had turned just prior to her departure, turned to show Roberta what she was holding. The night before Roberta had perceived something that flickered. This time she had gotten a better look, and the woman had been holding — what?

A mirror.

Yes, yes, she remembered! The woman had held a mirror, and had extended it toward her for an instant before fading and disappearing. It had flashed and flickered, reflecting light that was not there, and Roberta had recognized it as a mirror because she had looked into it and seen—

And seen herself.

God, she remembered it so clearly now! She breathed deeply, trying to come to terms with the memory, and placed her palms on the kitchen counter for support.

And then she felt it.

That sudden touch of cold air on the nape of her neck. She recognized the sensation immediately but tried to find an explanation for it. Was it a trick of the mind, touched off by her recollection of what she had seen last night? No, it was real enough. Well, could she have left the front door open on her last trip with the groceries? But she distinctly remembered kicking it shut. Of course the latch might not have engaged, and perhaps the wind—

No.

There was something behind her. Something behind her. Ariel, she thought, and as before she could feel those pale little eyes on her, touching her like cold damp hands.

But that was impossible. The music, the horrible wailing of the flute. It was going on, as loud as ever, so loud her skull was pulsing in time to it.

And now the teakettle whistled.

She made herself stand absolutely motionless. With very economical hand motions she inched upon the drawer in front of her. Her right hand slipped inside once the drawer was a couple of inches open, and she groped around until she managed to find one of the long knives and retrieve it very carefully from the drawer.

The child was upstairs playing her hellish music and someone was standing behind her. Not David. David didn’t sneak up on people.

Someone. Or some thing.

She tightened her grip on the knife. Please, she thought, let it be an overactive imagination. Let it be the house making me crazy, let it be the shock of Jeff’s death, let it be a reaction to too much Valium, too much excitement, too much stress, too much of everything—

The teakettle went on whistling, contending with the music of the flute. She couldn’t just stand there forever. Sooner or later she had to turn around.

She turned.

And Ariel stood framed in the doorway, her little eyes staring, her mouth open.

Roberta screamed. The teakettle whistled, the taped flute played on, and she screamed and screamed.

Roberta’s funeral was held Monday afternoon. Erskine was there, of course, accompanied this time by his parents, but he and Ariel didn’t get a chance to talk. Tuesday he came to the house but there were other people around. Ariel didn’t really talk to anyone else either, although she participated in various conversations. She got through them with her mind turned to another channel.

She didn’t even write anything in her diary. The night of the funeral she read through several earlier entries before putting the book away in a drawer.

Then finally Erskine came over Thursday after school. David was home, reading a book and smoking his pipes, and he didn’t object when she asked if she and Erskine could go upstairs.

When they were in her room with the door closed they were nervous with each other at first. Erskine kept walking around, picking things up and putting them down again, and she wished he would just sit down.

“Well,” he said. “How long’ll you be out of school?”

“I’ll be back Monday.”

“So you wind up missing a week, huh? Listen, don’t sweat it. You didn’t miss anything so far.”

“I wasn’t worried.”

“They never teach anything anyway.”

“I know.”

“Tashman’s giving us a test next week. And I can get your homework assignments tomorrow so you can do them over the weekend if you want.”

“Thanks.”

“If you don’t feel like it they won’t hassle you. Veronica was in school today and they told her don’t worry about making up the work she missed.”

“How is she?”

He shrugged. “She looks all right. I don’t know if she’s really sick or not. I wish I knew one way or the other. It’s hard to have sex fantasies about someone when you think they might be dying.”

“That’s really creepy.”

“Well, I feel creepy today,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong. Why don’t you play the flute or something?”

“I can’t.”

“How come?”

“Not until Monday. It was the same thing when Caleb died. David says it’s a way of showing respect. I didn’t understand it about Caleb because I used to play for him all the time, but she hated my flute so I guess it makes sense.”

“I guess.”

“Even if it doesn’t, I don’t want to argue with him. We had this long conversation the other night. I think maybe he was drunk. Does your father get drunk?”

“Never.”

“David was talking louder than usual, plus he would be cheerful one minute and sad the next. It was a little weird. He talked about Roberta and he talked about God’s will, and how maybe everything was for the best. And how it’s just the two of us now and we have to take care of each other.”