Текст книги "The Exorcist"

Автор книги: William Peter Blatty

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    "So what do you think, Willie? A fresh fruit salad for dessert?"

    "Yes, excellent!" said Karl.

    "Thanks, Willie."

    She'd invited an interesting mixture. In addition to Burke ("Show up sober, dammit!") and the youngish director of the second unit, she expected a senator (and wife); an Apollo astronaut (and wife); two Jesuits from Georgetown; her next-door neighbors; and Mary Jo Perrin and Ellen Cleary.

Mary Jo Perrin was a plump and gray-headed Washington seeress whom Chris had met at the White House dinner and liked immensely. She'd expected to find her austere and forbidding, but "You're not like that at all!" she'd been able to tell her. Bubbly-warm and unpretentious.

    Ellen Cleary was a middle-aged State Department secretary who'd worked in the U. S. Embassy in Moscow when Chris toured Russia. She had gone to considerable effort and trouble to rescue Chris from a number of difficulties and encumbrances encountered in the course of her travels, not the least of which had been caused by the redheaded actress' outspokenness. Chris had remembered her with affection over the years, and had looked her up on coming to Washington.

    "Hey, Shar," she asked, "which priests are coming?"

    "I'm not sure yet. I invited the president and the dean of the college, but I think that the president's sending an alternate. His secretary called me late this morning and said that he might have to go out of town."

    "Who's he sending?" Chris asked with guarded interest.

    "Let me see." Sharon rummaged through scraps of notes. "Yes, here it is, Chris. His assistant– Father Joseph Dyer."

    "You mean from the campus?"

    "Well, I'm not sure."

    "Oh, okay"

    She seemed disappointed.

    "Keep an eye on Burke tomorrow night," She instructed.

    "I will."

    "Where's Rags?"

    "Downstairs."

    "You know, maybe you should start to keep your typewriter there; don't you think? I mean, that way you can watch her when you're typing. Okay? I don't like her being alone so much."

    "Good idea."

    "Okay, later. Go home. Meditate. Play with horses."

    The planning and preparations at an end, Chris again found herself turning worried thoughts toward Regan. She tried to watch television. Could not concentrate. Felt uneasy. There was a strangeness in the house. Like settling stillness. Weighted dust.

    By midnight, all in the house were asleep.

    There were no disturbances. That night.

CHAPTER FOUR

She greeted her guests in a lime-green hostess costume with long, belled sleeves and pants. Her shoes were comfortable. They reflected her hope far the evening.

    The first to arrive was Mary Jo Perrin, who came with Robert, her teen-age son. The last was pink-faced Father Dyer. He was young and diminutive, with fey eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. At the door, he apologized for his lateness. "Couldn't find the right necktie," he told Chris expressionlessly. For a moment, she stared at him blankly, then burst into laughter. Her day-long depression began to lift.

    The drinks did their work. By a quarter to ten, they were scattered about the living room eating their dinners in vibrant knots of conversation.

    Chris filled her plate from the steaming buffet and scanned the room for Mary Jo Perrin. There. On a sofa with Father Wagner, the Jesuit dean. Chris had spoken to him briefly. He had a bald, freckled scalp and a dry, soft manner. Chris drifted to the sofa and folded to the floor in front of the coffee table as the seeress chuckled with mirth.

    "Oh, come on, Mary Jo!" the dean said, smiling as he lifted a forkful of curry to his mouth.

    "Yeah, come on, Mary Jo," echoed Chris.

    "Oh, hi! Great curry!" said the dean.

    "Not too hot?"

    "Not at all; it's just right. Mary Jo has been telling me there used to be a Jesuit who was also a medium."

    "And he doesn't believe me!" chuckled the seeress.

    "Ah, distinguo," corrected the dean. "I just said it was hard to believe."

    "You mean medium medium?" asked Chris.

    "Why, of course," said Mary Jo. "Why, he even used to levitate!"

    "Oh, I do it every morning," said the Jesuit quietly.

    "You mean he held séances?" Chris asked Mrs. Perrin.

    "Well, yes," she answered. "He was very, very famous in the nineteenth century. In fact, he was probably the only spiritualist of his time who wasn't ever clearly convicted of fraud."

    "As I said, he wasn't a Jesuit," commented the dean.

    "Oh, my, but was he!" She laughed.: "When he turned twenty-two, he joined the Jesuits and promised not to work anymore as a medium, but they threw him out of France"–she laughed even harder–"right after a séance that he held at the Tuileries. Do you know what he did? In the middle of the séance he told the empress she was about to be touched by the hands of a spirit child who was about to fully materialize, and when they suddenly turned all of the lights on"–she guffawed–"they caught him sitting with his naked foot on the empress' arm! Now, can you imagine?"

    The Jesuit was smiling as he set down his plate.

    "Don't come looking for discounts anymore on indulgences, Mary Jo."

    "Oh, come on, every family's got one black sheep."

    "We were pushing our quota with the Medici popes."

    "Y'know, I had an experience once," began Chris."

    But the dean interrupted. "Are you making this a matter of confession?"

    Chris smiled and said, "No, I'm not a Catholic."

    "Oh, well, neither are the Jesuits." Mrs. Perrin chuckled.

    "Dominican slander," retorted the dean. Then to Chris he said, "I'm sorry, my dear. You were saying?'

    "Well, just that I thought I saw somebody levitate once. In Bhutan."

    She recounted the story.

    "Do you think that's possible?" she ended. "I mean, really, seriously."

    "Who knows?" He shrugged. "Who knows what gravity is. Or matter, when it comes to that."

    "Would you like my opinion?" interjected Mrs. Perrin.

    The dean said, "No, Mary Jo; I've taken a vow of poverty."

    "So have I," Chris muttered.

    "What was that?" asked the dean, leaning forward.

    '"Oh, nothing. Say, there's something I've been meaning to ask you. Do you know that little cottage that's back of the church over there?" She pointed in the general direction.

    "Holy Trinity?" he asked.

    "Yes, right. Well, what goes on in there?"

    "Oh, well, that's where they say Black Mass," said Mrs. Perrin.

    "Black who?"

    "Black Mass."

    "What's that?"

    "She's kidding," said the dean.

    "Yes, I know," said Chris, "but I'm dumb. I mean, What's a Black Mass?"

    "Oh, basically, it's a travesty on the Catholic Mass," explained the dean. "It's connected to witchcraft. Devil worship."

    "Really? You mean, there really is such a thing?"

    "I really couldn't say. Although I heard a statistic once about something like possibly fifty thousand Black Masses being said every year in the city of Paris."

    "You mean now?" marveled Chris.

    "It's just something I heard."

    "Yes, of course, from the Jesuit secret service," twitted Mrs. Perrin.

    "Not at all. I hear voices," responded the dean.

    "You know, back in L. A.," mentioned Chris, "you hear an awful lot of stories about witch cults being around. I've often wondered if it's true."

    "Well, as I said, I wouldn't know," said the dean. "But I'll tell you who might–Joe Dyer. Where's Joe?"

    The dean looked around.

    "Oh, over there," he said, nodding toward the other priest, who was standing at the buffet with his back to them. He was heaping a second helping onto his plate. "Hey, Joe?"

    The young priest turned, his face impassive.. "You called, great dean?"

    The other Jesuit beckoned with his fingers.

    "All right, just a second," answered Dyer, and resumed his attack on the curry and salad.

    "That's the only leprechaun in the priesthood," said the dean with an edge of fondness. He sipped at his wine. "They had a couple of cases of desecration in Holy Trinity last week, and Joe said something about one of them reminding him of some things they used to do at Black Mass, so I expect he knows something about the subject."

    "What happened at the church?" asked Mary Jo Perrin.

    "Oh, it's really too disgusting," said the dean.

    "Come on, we're all through with our dinners."

    "No, please. It's too much," he demurred.

    "Oh, come on!"

    "You mean you can't read my mind, Mary Jo?" he asked her.

    "Oh, I could," she responded, "but I really don't think that I'm worthy to enter that Holy of Holies!" She chuckled.

    "Well, it really is sick," began the dean.

    He described the desecrations. In the first of the incidents, the elderly sacristan of the church had discovered a mound of human excrement on the altar cloth directly before the tabernacle.

    "Oh, that really is sick." Mrs. Perrin grimaced.

    "Well, the other's even worse," remarked the dean; then employed indirection and one or two euphemisms to explain how a massive phallus sculpted in clay had been found glued firmly to a statue of Christ on the left side altar.

    "Sick enough?" he concluded.

    Chris noticed that Mary Jo seemed genuinely disturbed as she said, "Oh, that's enough, now. I'm sorry that I asked. Let's change the subject, please."

    "No, I'm fascinated," said Chris.

    "Yes, of course. I'm a fascinating human."

    It was Father Dyer. He was hovering over her with his plate. "Listen, give me just a minute, and then I'll be back. I think I've got something going over there with the astronaut."

    "Like what?" asked the dean.

    Father Dyer raised his eyebrows in deadpan surmise. "Would you believe," he asked, "first missionary on the moon?"

    They burst into laughter.

    "You're just the right size," said Mrs. Perrin "They could stow you in the nose cone."

    "No, not me," he corrected her solemnly, and then turned to the dean to explain: "I've been trying to fix it up for Emory."

    "That's our disciplinarian on campus," Dyer explained in an aside to the women. "Nobody's up there and that's what he likes, you see; he sort of likes things quiet."

    "And so who would he convert?" Mrs. Perrin asked.

    "What do you mean?" Dyer frowned at her earnestly. "He'd convert the astronauts. That's it. I mean, that's what he likes: You know, one or two people. No groups. Just a couple."

    With deadpan gaze, Dyer glanced toward the astronaut.

    "Excuse me," he said and walked away.

    "I like him," said Mrs. Perrin.

    "Me too," Chris agreed. Then she turned to the dean. "You haven't told me what goes on in that cottage," she reminded him. "Big secret? Who's that priest I keep seeing there? You know, sort of dark? Do you know the one I mean?"

    "Father Karras," said the dean in a lowered tone; with a trace of regret.

    "What's he do?"

    "He's a counselor." He put down his wineglass and turned it by the stem. "Had a pretty rough knock last night, poor guy."

    "Oh, what?" asked Chris with a sudden concern.

    "Well, his mother passed away."

    Chris felt a melting sensation of grief that she couldn't explain. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said.

    "He seems to be taking it pretty hard," resumed the Jesuit. "She was living by herself, and I guess she was dead for a couple of days before they found her."

    "Oh, how awful," Mrs. Perrin murmured.

    "Who found her?" Chris asked solemnly.

    "The superintendent of her apartment building. I guess they wouldn't have found her even now except... Well, the next-door neighbors complained about her radio going all the time."

    "That's sad," Chris murmured.

    "Excuse me, please, madam."

    She looked up at Karl. He held a tray filled with glasses and liqueurs.

    "Sure, set it down here, Karl, that'll be fine."

    Chris liked to serve the liqueurs to her guests herself. It added an intimacy, she felt, that might otherwise be lacking.

    "Well, let's see now, I'll start with you," she told the dean and Mrs. Perrin; and served them. Then she moved about the room, taking orders and fetching for each of her guests, and by the time she had made the rounds, the various clusters had shifted to new combinations, except for Dyer and the astronaut, who seemed to be getting thicker. "No, I'm really not a priest," Chris heard Dyer say solemnly, his arm on the astronaut's chuckle-heaved shoulder. "I'm actually a terribly avant-garde rabbi." And not long after, she overheard Dyer inquiring of the astronaut. "What is space?" and when the astronaut shrugged and said he really didn't know, Father Dyer had fixed him with an earnest frown and said, "You should."

    Chris was standing with Ellen Cleary afterward, reminiscing about Moscow, when she heard a familiar, strident voice ringing angrily through from the kitchen.

    Oh, Jesus! Burke!

    He was shrieking obscenities at someone.

    Chris excused herself and went quickly to the kitchen, where Dennings was railing viciously at Karl while Sharon made futile attempts to hush him.

    "Burke!" exclaimed Chris. "Knock it off!"

    The director ignored her, continued to rage, the corners of his mouth flecked foamy with saliva, while Karl leaned mutely against the sink with folded arms and stolid expression, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Dennings.

    "Karl!" Chris snapped. 'Will you get out of here? Get out! Can't you see how he is?"

    But the Swiss would not budge until Chris began actually to shove him toward the door.

    "Naa-zi pig!" Dennings screamed at his back. And then he turned genially to Chris and rubbed his hands together. "What's dessert?" he asked mildly.

    "Dessert!" Chris thumped at her brow with the heel of her hand.

    "Well, I'm hungry," he whined.

    Chris turned to Sharon. "Feed him! I've got to get Regan up to Bed. And, Burke, for chrissakes," she asked the director, "will you behave yourself! There are priests out there!" She pointed.

    He creased his brow as his eyes grew intense with– a sudden and apparently genuine interest. "Oh, you noticed that too?" he asked without guile.

    Chris left the kitchen and went down to check Regan in the basement playroom, where her daughter had spent the entire day. She found her playing with the Ouija board. She seemed sullen; abstracted; remote. Well, at least she isn't feisty, Chris reflected and hopeful of diverting her, she brought her to the living room and began to introduce her to her guests.

    "Oh, isn't she darling!" said the wife of the senator.

    Regan was strangely well behaved, except for a moment with Mrs. Perrin when she would neither speak nor accept her hand. But the seeress made a joke of it.

    "Knows I'm a fake," She winked at Chris. But then, with a curious air of scrutiny, she reached forward and gripped Regan's hand with a gentle pressure, as if checking her pulse. Regan quickly shook her off and glared malevolently.

    "Oh, dear, dear, dear, she must be tired," Mrs. Perrin said casually; yet she continued to watch Regan with a probing fixity, an anxiety unexplained.

    "She's been feeling kind of sick," Chris murmured in apology. She looked down at Regan. "Haven't you, honey?"

    Regan did not answer. She kept her eyes on the floor.

    There was no one left for Began to meet except the senator and Robert, Mrs. Perrin's son, and Chris thought it best to pass them up. She took Regan up to bed and tucked her in.

    "Do you think you can sleep?" Chris asked.

    "I don't know," she answered dreamily. She'd turned on her side and was staring at the wall with a distant expression.

    "Would you like me to read to you for a while?"

    A shake of the head.

    "Okay, then. Try to sleep."

    She leaned over and kissed her, and then walked to the door and flicked the light switch.

    "Night, my baby."

    Chris was almost out the door when Regan called out to her very softly: "Mother, what's wrong with me?"

    So haunted. The tone so despairing. So disproportionate to her condition. For a moment the mother felt shaken and confused. But quickly she righted herself.

    "Well, it's just like I said, hon; it's nerves. All you need is those pills for a couple of weeks and I know you'll be feeling just fine. Now then, try to go to sleep, hon, okay?'

    No response. Chris waited.

    "Okay?" she repeated.

    "Okay," whispered Regan.

    Chris abruptly noticed goose pimples rising on her forearm. She rubbed it. Good Christ, it gets cold in this room. Where's the draft coming in from?

    She moved to the window and checked along the edges. Found nothing. Turned to Regan. "'You warm enough, baby?"

    No answer.

    Chris moved to the bedside. "Regan? You asleep?" she whispered.

    Eyes closed. Deep breathing.

    Chris tiptoed from the room.

    From the hall she heard singing, and as she walked down the stairs, she saw with pleasure that the young Father Dyer was playing the piano near the livingroom picture window and was leading a group that had gathered around him in cheerful song. As she entered the living room, they had just finished "Till We Meet Again."

    Chris started forward to join the group, but was quickly intercepted by the senator and his wife, who had their coats across their arms. They seemed edgy.

    "Are you leaving so soon?" Chris asked.

    "Oh, I'm really so sorry, and my dear, we've had a marvelous evening," the senator effused "But poor Martha's got a headache."

    "Oh, I am so sorry, but I do feel terrible," moaned the senator's wife. "Will you excuse us, Chris? It'd been such a lovely party."

    "I'm really sorry you have to go," said Chris.

    She accompanied them to the door and she could hear Father Dyer in the background asking, "Does anyone else know the words to 'I'll Bet You're Sorry Now, Tokyo Rose'?"

    She bade them good night. On her way back to the living room, Sharon stepped quietly out from the study.

    "Where's Burke?" Chris asked her.

    "In there," Sharon answered with a nod toward the study. "He's sleeping it off. Say, what did the senator say to you? Anything?"

    "What do you mean?" asked Chris. "They just left."

    "Well, I guess it's as well."

    "Sharon, what do you mean?"

    "Oh, Burke," sighed Sharon. In a guarded tone, she described an encounter between the senator and the director. Dennings, had remarked to him, in passing, said Sharon, that there appeared to be "an alien pubic hair floating round in my gin." Then he'd turned to the senator and added in a tone that was vaguely accusatory, "Never seen it before in my life! Have you?"

    Chris giggled as Sharon went on to describe how the senator's embarrassed reaction had triggered one of Dennings' quixotic rages, in which he'd expressed his "boundless gratitude" for the existence of politicians, since without them "one couldn't distinguish who the statesmen were, you see."

    When the senator had moved away in a huff, the director turned to Sharon and said proudly, "There, you see? I didn't curse. Now then, don't you think I handled that rather demurely?"

    Chris couldn't help laughing. "Oh, well, let him sleep. But you'd better stay in there in case he wakes up. Would you mind?"

    "Not at all." Sharon entered the study.

    In the living room, Mary Jo Perrin sat alone and thoughtful in a corner chair. She looked edgy; disturbed. Chris started to join her, but changed her mind when one of the neighbors drifted over to the corner.

    Chris headed for the piano instead. Dyer broke off his playing of chords and looked up to greet her. "Yes, young lady, and what can we do for you today? We're running a special on novenas."

    Chris chuckled with the others. "I thought I'd get the scoop on what goes on at Black Mass," she said,-"Father Wagner said you were the expert."

    The group at the piano fell silent with interest.

    "No, not really," said Dyer, lightly touching some chords. "Why'd you mention Black Mass?" he asked her soberly.

    "Oh, well; some of us were talking before about–well... about those things that they found at Holy Trinity, and–"

    "Oh, you mean the desecrations?" Dyer interrupted.

    "Hey, somebody give us a clue. what' going on," demanded the astronaut.

    "Me too," said Ellen Cleary. "I'm lost."

    "Well, they found some desecrations at the church down the street," explained Dyer.

    "Well, like what?" asked the astronaut.

    "Forget it," Father, Dyer advised him. "Let's just say obscenities, okay?"

    "Father Wagner says you told him it was like at Black Mass," prompted Chris, "and I wondered what went on at those things?"

    "Oh, I really don't know all that much," he protested. "In fact, most of what I know is what I've heard -from another Jeb."

    "What's a Jeb?" Chris asked.

    "Short for Jesuit., Father Karras is the expert on all this stuff."

    Chris was suddenly alert "Oh, the dark priest at Holy Trinity?"

    "You know him?" asked Dyer.

    "No, I just heard him mentioned, that's all."

    "Well, I think he did a paper on it once. You know, just from the psychiatric side."

    "Whaddya mean?" asked Chris.

    "Whaddya mean, whaddya mean?"

    "Are you telling me he's a psychiatrist?"

    "Oh, well, sure. Gee, I'm sorry. I just assumed that you knew."

    "Listen, somebody tell me something!" the astronaut demanded impatiently. "What does go on at Black Mass?"

    "Let's just say perversions." Dyer shrugged. "Obscenities. Blasphemies. It's an evil parody of the Mass, where instead of God they worshiped Satan and sometimes offered human sacrifice."

    Ellen Cleary shook her head and walked away. "This is getting too creepy for me." She smiled thinly.

    Chris paid her no notice. The dean joined the group unobtrusively. "But how can you know that?" she asked the young Jesuit. "Even if there was such a thing as Black Mass, who's to say what went on there?"

    "Well, I guess they got most of it," answered Dyer, "from the people who were caught and then confessed."

    "Oh, come on," said the dean. "Those confessions were worthless, Joe. They were tortured."

    "No, only the snotty ones," Dyer said blandly.

    There was a ripple of vaguely nervous laughter. The dean eyed his watch. "Well, I really should be going," he said to Chris. "I've got the six-o'clock Mass in Dahlgren Chapel."

    "I've got the banjo Mass." Dyer beamed. Then his eyes shifted to a point in the room behind Chris, and he sobered abruptly. "Well, now, I thick we have a visitor, Mrs. MacNeil," he cautioned, motioning with his head.

    Chris turned. And gasped on seeing Regal in her nightgown, urinating gushingly onto the rug. Staring fixedly at the astronaut, she intoned in a lifeless voice, "You're going to die up there."

    "Oh, my God!" cried Chris in pain, rushing to her daughter. "Oh, God, oh, my baby, oh, come on, come with me!"

    She took Regan by the arms and led her quickly away with a tremulous apology over her shoulder to the ashen astronaut: "Oh, I'm so sorry! She's been sick, she must be walking in her sleep! She's didn't know what she was saying!"

    "Gee, maybe we should go," she heard Dyer say to someone.

    "No, no, stay," Chris protested, turning around for a moment. "Please, stay! It's okay! I'll be back in just a minute!"

    Chris paused by the kitchen, instructing Willie to see to the rug before the stain became indelible, and then she walked Regan upstairs to her bates bathroom, bathed her and changed her nightgown. "Honey, why did you say that?" Chris asked her repeatedly, but Regan appeared not to understand and mumbled non sequiturs. Her eyes were vacant and clouded.

    Chris tucked her into bed, and almost immediately Regan appeared to fall asleep. For a time Chris waited, listening to her breathing. Then left the room.

    At the bottom of the stairs, she encountered Sharon and the young director of the second unit assisting Dennings out of the study. They had called a cab and were going to shepherd him back to his suite at the Sheraton-Park.

    "Take it easy," Chris advised as they left the house with Dennings between them.

    Barely conscious, the director said, "Fuck it," and slipped into fog and the waiting cab.

    Chris returned to the living room, where the guests who still remained expressed their sympathy as she gave them a brief account of Regan's illness. When she mentioned the rappings and the other "attention-getting" phenomena, Mrs. Perrin stared at her intently. Once Chris looked at her, expecting her to comment, but she said nothing and Chris continued.

    "Does she walk in her sleep quite a bit?" asked Dyer.

    "No, tonight's the first time. Or at least, the first time I know of, so I guess it's this hyperactivity thing. Don't you think?"

    "Oh, I really wouldn’t know," said the priest. "I've heard sleepwalking's common at puberty, except that–" Here he shrugged and broke off. "I don't know. Guess you'd better ask your doctor."

    Throughout the remainder of the discussion, Mrs. Perrin sat quietly, watching the dance of flames in the living room fireplace: Almost as subdued, Chris noticed, was the astronaut, who was scheduled for a flight to the moon within the year. He stared at his drink with a now-and-then grunt meant to signify interest and attention. As if by tacit understanding, no one made reference to what Regan had said to him.

    "Well, I do have that Mass" said the dean at last, rising to leave.

    It triggered a general departure. They all stood up and expressed their thanks for dinner and the evening.

    At the door, Father Dyer took Chris's hand and probed her eyes earnestly. "Do you think there's a part in one of your movies for a very short priest who can play the piano?" he asked.

    "Well, if there isn't"–Chris laughed–"then I'll have one written in for you, Father."

    "I was thinking of my brother," he told her solemnly.

    "Oh, you!" she laughed again, and bade him a fond and warm good night.

    The last to leave were Mary Jo Perrin and her son. Chris held them at the door with idle chatter. She had the feeling that Mary Jo had something on her mind, but was holding it back. To delay her departure, Chris asked her opinion on Regan's continued use of the Ouija board and her Captain Howdy fixation. "Do you think there's any harm in it?" she asked.

    Expecting an airily perfunctory dismissal. Chris was surprised when Mrs. Perrin frowned and looked down at the doorstep. She seemed to be thinking, and still in this posture, she stepped outside and joined her son, who was waiting on the stoop.

    When at last she lifted her head, her eyes were in shadow.

    "I would take it away from her," she said quietly.

    She handed ignition keys to her son. "Bobby, start up the motor," she instructed. "It's cold."

    He took the keys, told Chris that he'd loved her in all her films, and then walked shyly away toward an old, battered Mustang parked down the street.

    Mrs. Perrin's eyes were still in shadow.

    "I don't know what you think of me," she said, speaking slowly. "Many people associate me with spiritualism. But that's wrong. Yes, I think I have a gift," she continued quietly. "But it isn't occult. In fact, to me it seems natural; perfectly natural. Being a Catholic, I believe that we all have a foot in two worlds. The one that were conscious of is time. But now and then a freak like me gets a flash from the other foot; and that one, I think... is in eternity. Well, eternity has no time. There the future is present. So now and again when I feel that other foot, I believe that I get to see the future. Who knows? Maybe not. Maybe all of it's coincidence." She shrugged. "But I think I do. And if that's so, why, I still say, it's natural, you see. But now the occult..." She paused, picking words. "The occult is something different. I've stayed away from that. I think dabbling with that can be dangerous. And that includes fooling around with a Ouija board."

    Until now, Chris had thought her a woman of eminent sense. And yet something in her manner now was deeply disturbing. She felt a creeping foreboding that she tried to dispel.

    "Oh, come on, Mary Jo." Chris smiled. "Don't you know how those Ouija boards work? It isn't anything at all but a person's subconscious, that's all."

    "Yes, perhaps," she answered quietly. "Perhaps. It could all be suggestion.. But in story after story that I've heard about séances, Ouija boards, all of that, they always seem to point to the opening of a door of some sort. Oh, not to the spirit world, perhaps; you don't believe in that. Perhaps, then, a door in what you call the subconscious. I don't know. All I know is that things seem to happen. And, my dear, there are lunatic asylums all over the world filled with people why dabbled in the occult."

    "Are you kidding?"

    There was momentary silence. Then again the soft voice began droning out of darkness. "There was a family in Bavaria, Chris, in nineteen twenty-one. I -don't remember the name, but they were a family of eleven. You could check it in the newspapers, I suppose. Just a short time following an attempt at a séance, they went out of their minds. All of them. All eleven. They went on a burning spree in their house, and when they'd finished with the furniture, they started on the three-month-old baby of one of the younger daughters. And that is when the neighbors broke in and stopped them.

    "The entire family," she ended, "was put in an asylum."

    "Oh, boy!" breathed Chris as she thought of Captain Howdy. He had now assumed a menacing coloration. Mental illness. Was that it? Something. "I knew I should take her to see a psychiatrist!"

    "Oh, for heaven sakes," said Mrs. Perrin, stepping into the light, "you never mind about me; you just listen to your doctor." There was attempted reassurance in her voice that was not convincing. "I'm great at the future"–Mrs. Perrin smiled–"but in the present I'm absolutely helpless." She was fumbling in her purse. "Now then, where are my glasses? There, you see? I've mislaid them. Oh, here they are right here." She had found them in a pocket of her coat. "Lovely home," she remarked as she put on the glasses and glanced up at the upper facade of the house. "Gives a feeling of warmth."