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onto one knee and reached for her husband’s hand. “I
am sure someone was trying to reach me.”
Amanda shivered. “My God, this place is an igloo.”
“The fire’s out.” Cecil righted the chairs.
“Well, get it going again! I’m freezing solid.
Someone stick a cigarette between my lips so I can
inhale some heat.”
“The trouble with your generation is, you have
been much indulged. A little cold never hurt anyone.
Leave those logs alone. They must last all winter. I am
not throwing money on a woodpile.”
The voice cracked through the room like another
bolt of lightning, turning the Willoughbys—brother and
sister—into a pair of dummies in a shop window.
Norman Thompson sat down without meaning to,
while Gerty resembled a fish trying to unswallow the
hook. Otherwise the only movement came from the old
lady in the corner. Even seated, she appeared to have
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grown. Her eyes burned in the parchment face.
Glancing at the photo in her hands, she laid it down
on the bookcase, tossed off her blanket, and stood up.
“There has been a great deal of waste in this house
lately.” The voice dropped to a whisper but carried
deep into the shadows.
“This extravagance will stop. When one is old,
people tend to take advantage. It appears I must come
out of retirement, get back in harness and pull this
team.”
Her face as ashen as her hair, Amanda stood
hunched like an old woman. She and Cecil looked like
brother and sister for once. They wore matching looks
of horror—the way they had worn matching coats as children. As
for the Thompsons, they resembled a pair of missionaries who,
having wandered into a brothel, are unable to find the exit.
“Norman, dear, I think we should be running
along; it is getting late ...”
“We can get our own coats ... Good night!”
Husband and wife backed out the door. Never again
would Gerty Thompson lift the mystic veil.
“Good night,” echoed the voice of Mary Willoughby.
“A pedestrian pair ...” A pause, filled by the banging of
the front door. “In future the decision as to who comes
into this house is mine. I certainly do not enjoy
entertaining in my nightdress, and more to the point
...” The pale lips flared back. “You, Amanda and Cecil,
are uninvited guests here. Don’t forget. Whether you
go or stay will depend on how we all get on together. A
pity, but I don’t think either of you can afford to live
anywhere else at present. Gambling is your vice, Cecil.
The corruption of the weak and indolent. I remember
how you never wanted a birthday cake because you’d
have to share it. As for you, Amanda, all you’re good
for is painting your nails and throwing up your skirts.”
A smile that turned the parchment face colder.
“Neither of you are talking and I won’t say much more
tonight. I don’t want to strain my voice. Tomorrow I
will telephone lawyer Henry Morbeck and invite him
out here, for the record. Your year of playing Monopoly
is over. Your father left me control of his money and I
want it back in my hands. The capital will come to you
both one day, but bear in mind you may have quite a
wait.” Smoothing a hand over her forehead, Mrs.
Willoughby removed the hair net and dropped it in the
grate. “Good night, children. Don’t stay up late; I won’t
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have electricity wasted.”
She was gone. They stood listening to her footsteps
mounting the stairs. Finally a door on the second floor
closed.
“It’s not her!” Amanda pummeled a fist into her
palm. “That creature—that monster—is not Mary.”
Cecil grabbed for a cigarette, then could not hold
his hand steady to light it. “That fool Thompson
woman
and
her
fun-and-games
séances.
She
unearthed this horror. We’re talking possession.
Someone else looked out of Mother’s eyes. Something
has appropriated her voice.”
“We have to think.” Amanda hugged herself for
warmth. “We gave it entree, now we must find a way to
be rid of it before it sucks the life out of us all. It will
bleed the bank accounts dry. We’ll be paupers at the
mercy of an avenging spirit. We’re to be made to pay
for every unkind word and deed Mary has experienced
at our hands.”
“What do you suggest?” Cecil still had not lit the
cigarette. “Do we tell the bank manager that should
Mary Willoughby ask to see him, she is really a ghost
in disguise?”
“We’ll talk to Dr. Denver.” Amanda was pulling at
her nails. “He saw the condition Mother was in last
week. He’ll know something is crazy. He’ll come up
with a diagnosis of split personality or ... some
newfangled disorder. Who cares, so long as he declares
her incompetent.”
“He won’t.” With a wild laugh Cecil broke his
cigarette into little pieces and tossed them onto the
dead fire. “He’ll opt for a miracle, and why shouldn’t
he? Is anything less believable than the truth?”
“Do you never stop kidding yourself?” The words
were screamed. “We all know who she is, and we know
why she has come back. So if you can’t answer the
question how to be rid of her, kindly shut up. I’ll die of
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