At least I hoped he would. Because if he didn’t, if he laughed, if he said there were no such things—what would happen to me?
15
Darkness fell. The clock ticked the minutes away, chimed the hours. Every swing of the pendulum brought Vincent closer. I heard him come downstairs to have his glass of wine, I heard him go up to bed, I heard Dad and Susan follow him. The inn grew quiet. I told myself I’d be strong, I’d resist, I’d send Vincent back into the dark and the cold.
At three A.M. he came to my door. “Cynda,” he called softly, “may I come in?”
The sound of his voice froze my blood. I huddled under the blankets and prayed he’d go away.
“Cynda, please let me in,” he whispered. “I must talk to you, explain, apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’ve paced the floor all day unable to write, unable to forgive myself.”
His voice ached with pain, throbbed with sadness. I felt myself weakening, but I forced myself to lie still. If I didn’t get up, I couldn’t open the door.
“I thought you loved me, Cynda, I thought you wanted me as much as I want you. Don’t shut me out, please don’t.” His voice was so low I barely understood what he was saying. Vowing not to let him in, I tiptoed to the door and pressed my ear against it. I heard him breathing softly. “How can you be so cruel, Cynda?” Vincent paused as if he were struggling against his own nature. “I’ve never felt this way, I’ve never loved anyone, I didn’t think I was capable of it.”
I gripped the knob, wanting to believe him, yearning to be with him, to talk the way we used to. Maybe I’d been wrong, maybe I’d dreamed the horrible thing he’d done to me. It couldn’t have happened the way I remembered it. It wasn’t possible.
“Let me in,” Vincent begged. “Just for a little while. I promise I won’t hurt you.”
I watched my hand turn the knob as if it belonged to someone else, I watched the door open, I heard myself say, “You can come in for a minute, but only if you . . .”
Wordlessly Vincent took me in his arms. His teeth sought my throat.
“No,” I cried, “don’t, please don’t, you promised . . .” I pushed him, I shoved, I beat at his chest, but, like last night, I couldn’t get away, couldn’t even cry out. He sucked hard, greedily, drinking my blood, draining my strength.
As suddenly as he’d grabbed me, he shoved me away. I fell on the bed, weak and dizzy, and he perched beside me. His eyes shone in the dark like a cat’s.
“You see?” he murmured. “I mean you no harm. I could have drained every drop of your blood, I could have killed you, but I chose not to.”
“It wasn’t a dream, I didn’t imagine it,” I sobbed.
“But you still love me.”
“No,” I sobbed, “I hate you, I despise you, I loathe you. You’re hideous, you’re depraved, vile. . . .”
Vincent listened to me curse him, smiling as if it pleased him. What I said, how I felt meant nothing to him.
“What will you do now?” he asked, twirling a strand of my hair around his finger like a ring. “You won’t try to betray me, will you, Cynda?”
He tightened the ring of hair, hurting me. “Remember, you promised not to tell.”
Despite the pain, I struggled to pull free of his hand, but there was no escape from his eyes. They held me, I couldn’t turn away.
“Did you honestly think there’d be no price to pay for the attention I lavished on you? Even a mortal man expects a return on an investment, my dear, naive child.” Releasing my hair, he lay back on my bed and gazed at me.
“Maybe I can’t tell Dad everything,” I whispered, “but I can at least tell him you tried to seduce me, you made advances, you took liberties, you, you . . .”
Vincent mocked my choice of words—so old-fashioned, so Victorian. “I’ll tell your father you tried to seduce me,” he said. “When I refused, you made up a lie to spite me.”
I forced myself to sit up and slide away from him. “Dad would never take your word over mine.”
But even as I spoke, I began to doubt. In all the time I’d been here, Dad hadn’t once taken my side against Susan or Todd. It would be no different with Vincent. Ever since Dad had welcomed Vincent to Underhill, he’d listened eagerly to his guest’s opinions. Except for his belief in ghosts, Dad agreed with every word Vincent spoke.
“After you ran to your room last night,” Vincent went on, “your father told me he’s thinking of taking you to a psychiatrist. He said you haven’t adjusted to the divorce as well as he’d hoped. He spoke of your hostility toward Susan, your jealousy of Todd, your inability to study.”
Vincent laughed and ran a finger down my cheek. His nail was just sharp enough to hurt. “Girls with emotional problems are not to be trusted, Cynda. Or believed. Besides,” he chuckled, “your father thinks I’m bloody marvelous.”
“I’ll tell Susan, then,” I said desperately.
Vincent began to play with my hair again. “Your stepmother has a small mind, full of small suspicions, but she’s easily flattered. A word of praise here, a smile there, and she’s mine too.”
When I began to cry, Vincent yawned, showing his sharp teeth and his red tongue. “Silly little fool, don’t bore me with your tears.”
I raised my hands to protect my throat, but he was already at the door. “Remember, Cynda. ‘I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.’”
Several days passed. I stayed in bed till late in the afternoon, eating little, sipping tea, sleeping. Every night Vincent came to my door, every night I tried to resist him, every night I failed. I had no idea what he planned to do, how long he’d let me live, or what would happen to me when I died.
One afternoon, Susan told me she was taking to me to the doctor. “It’s either a bad case of flu or mononucleosis,” she said, but I’d heard her whisper “Leukemia” to Dad. Or maybe bone cancer, Hodgkin’s disease—words that once would have terrified me, but I knew worse things now.
I hadn’t been outside for days. The wind was so cold, the light so bright it blinded me. “Please let me go back to bed,” I whimpered. “Please, Susan, please.”
At first it seemed I’d get my wish. The car wouldn’t start. Susan swore and begged, but the engine resisted everything she did. Dad had no better luck, but instead of giving up, he called the Bigelows.
Will arrived ten minutes later. Ignoring my protests, Dad saw me off. “Take good care of her, Will.”
As we pulled away from the inn, Will said, “I’m sorry you’re sick, but I’m glad to have a chance to be with you. I’ve been wanting to patch things up. I didn’t mean to make you angry last week.”
I stared silently at the snowy fields and bare trees. I’d forgotten we’d quarreled. It seemed so long ago, so unimportant. I’d been a different girl then. Foolish. Stupid.
I closed my eyes and rested my head on the back of the seat. “Doesn’t the sun hurt your eyes?”
“Maybe being sick makes you more sensitive to light,” Will said.
Sick, oh, if only that was all it was. Then the doctor would give me medicine, advise me to rest, drink plenty of liquids. I’d get well, I’d play in the snow with Will, I’d read to Todd, everything would be the way it used to be. But there was no cure for my disease. Maybe not even death.
My neck throbbed painfully, reminding me of what I’d done in the dark with Vincent, shameful things that separated me from Will, from everyone. Things I could never tell. Things that made me despise myself. Things that bound me to Vincent’s secret world forever.
By the time we got to Ferrington, the sun was low. Soon it would be replaced by the pale moon already visible just above the eastern horizon. Nightfall was near. Darkness. Vincent’s time. My time.
Will stopped in front of an old brick building. Its wood trim was neatly painted. A brass knocker in the shape of a sailing ship shone on the red door. Two small evergreens flanked the stone steps.
“Do you want me to come in with you, Cynda?”
I opened the truck door. “No, of course not. I’ll be okay.”
He pointed up the street at a small shingled house on the corner. “That’s the library. I’ll wait for you there.”
Leaving the truck in front of the doctor’s office, Will sprinted toward the library. I walked slowly up the short path to the door and studied the brass plate on the wall. Alvin Berman, M.D.
I pictured the office itself—colonial furniture in the waiting room, nautical prints on the wall, a nurse in white, a jovial old doctor with a Maine accent. He’d be expecting an ordinary illness—flu, anemia, mononucleosis, whatever—but he’d encounter something he’d never studied in medical school, a condition not found in his books.
Nervously I looked behind me. Will was gone. The street was empty.
I let my breath out in a long sigh and walked away quickly. In twenty minutes I’d go to the library and meet Will. He’d never know I hadn’t seen the doctor. Neither would Dad or Susan.
To escape the cold, I went to the diner and took a seat at the counter. Gina was talking to a couple of men sitting in a booth, but when she saw me, she bustled over to take my order.
“Mrs. Bigelow told me you’ve been sick, Cynda. How are you feeling?”
To avoid meeting her eyes, I studied the menu. “I’m okay.”
“That drafty old inn is no place to spend the winter,” Gina said. “I hear Todd’s had a bad cold. It’s a wonder the whole family’s not sick.”
I shuddered at the thought someone else might suffer from my disease.
She patted my hand to comfort me. “Lord, child, your fingers feel like ice. How about a nice cup of hot tea? A slice of lemon, some honey—it’s sure to warm you up.”
While I waited, I tried to ignore the acrid smell of brewing coffee. A hamburger sizzled and spat on the grill, a man near me puffed his cigarette, the fluorescent lights were so bright they hurt my eyes. I wanted to leave but it was cold outside and I had nowhere else to go. And I was tired, so tired. I cradled my head in my hands, too weary to move. I was lost, there was no hope for me, no help.
Gina roused me by setting a steaming cup in front of me. “Just look at the circles under your eyes,” she said, obviously worried by my appearance. “And you’re so pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”
I shrugged, dangerously close to tears, and tried to drink my tea. My hand shook so hard I spilled some on the counter.
“Something’s bothering you,” Gina said slowly. “You’re frightened, scared to death.” Drawing a deep breath, she peered into my eyes. “It’s the inn, isn’t it? No matter what your father says, I swear that place is cursed.”
“What do you mean?” I stared at her, wondering what she knew. Vincent’s mark began to ache with a dull, throbbing pain like an abscessed tooth.
“The girl Martha told you about wasn’t the first to die at Underhill,” Gina whispered. “There were others before her, strange stories that scared me when I was young. I told myself you couldn’t be in danger, it all happened years ago, the killers are as dead as their victims now, but . . .”
She picked up a cloth and began wiping the counter. “I just don’t know what to think. There’s something about that inn, what folks call an aura. It gives you a bad feeling.”
I pressed my hand against my neck to ease the pain, but it didn’t help. The sky was darkening. I had to get back to the inn, Vincent was waiting, soon he’d come for me.
Gina straightened up and stared at me, her eyes wide with contrition. “Lord, what’s the matter with me? Now I’ve gone and upset you, talking nonsense like a silly old woman. I swear I haven’t got the sense I was born with.”
She clearly wanted me to forget what she’d told me, but I needed to know more. Any information about the inn would help. “Where did you learn all this?” I asked.
Gina returned her attention to the spot on the counter. Scrubbing vigorously, she said, “There was an article in the Sentinel back in ’thirty-two or ’thirty-three when they found the girl’s body. One of the reporters did a story on Underhill’s history and turned up the other killings.”
She paused to refill a customer’s coffee cup. I watched her smiling and talking to the man, maybe sharing a bit of local gossip, never dreaming the murderer she’d told me about was still very much alive. It was all I could do to sit still and drink my tea. My hands trembled, my neck throbbed, my legs and arms were weak with fear and dread. Soon I’d return to the inn. To Vincent. To darkness—and death.
“You can read the story yourself, Cynda.” Gina was back, plump arms folded on the counter, ready to tell me more. “That’s what Martha and I did. We’d heard about the murder so often we went to the library and found the newspaper article. They keep all sorts of old stuff there.”
Once more, she patted my hand. “You look so tired, Cynda. Go on home, get some rest. For the Lord’s sake, take care of yourself.”
I left the diner without looking back. Take care of myself—if only I could.
16
Outside the diner, I leaned against a telephone pole and waited for my heart to slow down. When I felt strong enough, I walked toward the library. Except for a lurid streak of crimson on the western horizon, purple clouds darkened the sky. The moon hid her face. Most of the stars kept her company.
The wind nipped at my heels and bit through my parka. Overhead, branches swayed and creaked. Street lights cast dancing shadows on the snow’s icy crust. Across the road, a child came to a window and peered out. Behind her a woman moved to and fro, setting a table. A man read the evening paper. I raised a hand in greeting. Giving me one long, lingering look, the child turned away. Someone pulled a blind and the curtain fell, separating me from the little girl.
I exhaled slowly. My breath drifted away like smoke. I hurried into the library, anxious to escape the cold.
I found Will at a reading table, so deeply immersed in a book he didn’t notice me till I cleared my throat.
He looked up. “You’re back sooner than I thought. What did Dr. Berman say?”
“I’m just run-down,” I said; unable to meet his eyes. “A little rest and I’ll be fine.”
“That’s great.” Getting to his feet, Will began to gather his books, but I stopped him.
“If you don’t mind, I want to look for something.” When he offered to help, I told him to stay where he was. “I can find it by myself.”
Will shrugged and sat down. His red cheeks suggested my voice had been sharper than I’d intended.
It took longer than I’d thought. The old newspapers were on microfilm. I had to spool through several reels from the thirties before I saw the headline I wanted: “Missing Girl’s Body Found Near Underhill Inn.” The type was blurry and hard to read. If I kept Will waiting too long he might come looking for me. I didn’t want him to see what I was doing. He might ask questions I couldn’t answer.
Feeding coins into the machine, I made a copy of the story. Then, without reading them, I folded the pages, slipped them into my purse, and told Will I was ready to leave.
As we left the building, he took my hand. I clung to his hand, loving its warmth, its ordinariness. For a second, I felt like a normal person, a girl walking down a street with a boy, listening to him talk about school assignments and tests, familiar, everyday things.
Then I remembered Vincent and the hours of darkness that lay ahead. Gently I freed my hand from Will’s and climbed into the truck. If only I had the courage to tell him what was really wrong with me. If only he could help me.
When we pulled into the inn’s parking lot, the porch light flashed on, and Dad opened the back door. Waving to Will, he invited him to have dinner with us. “Susan’s set a place for you.”
Will shook his head, but Dad insisted. It was the least he could do to thank him for taking me to the doctor. “I’ve got steaks ready for the grill.”
“You can’t say no,” Susan added. “We’ve already phoned your grandmother. If you don’t eat here you won’t eat anywher
e.”
Will threw up his hands in surrender and followed me inside. Todd was delighted to see him. Ignoring me, he begged Will for a piggyback ride. As they galloped out of the room, I heard Todd say something unpleasant about me.
Susan heard too. Looking up from the tray she was preparing for Vincent, she said, “Todd doesn’t mean it, Cynda. Children go through stages. Before you know it, he’ll be crazy about you all over again.”
I watched her carry the tray out of the kitchen. She probably thought she was disappointing me by taking it upstairs herself. Little did she know the last thing I wanted now was to be alone with Vincent.
When Susan returned, she asked what Dr. Berman had said. I was standing at the window, my back to her, staring at the snowman Will, Todd, and I had made weeks ago. He was thinner now and brittle with ice. His face reminded me of Vincent’s.
Without looking at Susan, I repeated the lie I’d told Will. “I’m just run-down.”
“Did you have some blood work done?” she asked.
I nodded. No lie this time. I’d certainly had blood work done.
“I have a feeling you’re anemic,” Susan said. “When Dr. Berman gets the test results, he’ll probably prescribe iron supplements.”
I smiled to myself. Anemic, yes, I was no doubt anemic. My blood needed more than iron, though. Without a transfusion, I’d soon be as white and bloodless as the snowman.
I watched Susan’s reflection in the window. She moved about the kitchen purposefully, maneuvering her stomach around obstacles, her attention fixed on preparing a salad. How innocent she seemed, how pure and untouched by evil. What would she say if I whirled about and told her the truth?
“By the way,” I might say, “Vincent comes to my room late at night and sucks my blood, that’s why I’m sick. What do you think we should do about it?”
Even if I dared tell her, Susan wouldn’t believe me. Worse yet, Vincent would kill me for betraying him. Weeks from now, some poor soul would find my body washed up on the rocks.
Dad came into the kitchen, carrying a platter of freshly grilled steaks. “Dinner is served,” he announced.