Where the Summer Ends Part 2

She was a beautiful creature. It was easy to see how such beauty could drive a man to adultery-or murder. Easy to understand why Pittman had been fascinated as an artist.

Moodily he stared at the painting. She was so vital. Pittman must have indeed been talented to incarnate such life within the oils. Strange how her eyes looked into your own. Her smile. If you looked long enough, you could imagine her lips moved, her eyes followed you. Amazing that he had painted it from only a photograph.

She would have been easy to love. Mysterious. Not a shallow housewife like Janet. Strange how things had changed. Once he had loved Janet because she was a perfect housewife and mother. A woman like Renee he would have considered dangerous, trivial-desirable, perhaps, like a film s.e.x G.o.ddess, but not the type to love. So old values can change.

And Gerry realized he no longer loved his wife.

Bitterness flooded his mind. Guilt? Should he feel guilty for treating Janet so callously? Was it wrong to be unforgiving over an accident, a simple accident that...

"You killed my son! " he choked. Tears of rage, of pain, blinded his eyes. With a sob, Gerry whirled from the painting and flung his empty gla.s.s through the doorway of the bar.

He froze-never hearing his gla.s.s rip through the rusty veranda screen and shatter against a tree below.

Renee. She was standing in the doorway.

Only for a second did the image last. For an instant he clearly saw her standing before him, watching him from the darkness of the doorway. She was just like her picture: green summer frock, bobbed flame hair, eyes alight with longing, mouth half open in invitation.

Then as his heart stuttered at the vision, she vanished.

Gerry let out his breath with a long exclamation and sank onto a chair. Had he seen a ghost? Had they started bottling LSD with Scotch? He laughed shakily. An after-image, of course. He'd been staring at the painting for an hour. When he had abruptly looked away against the darkened doorway, the image of the painting had superimposed on his retina. Certainly! They'd done experiments like that in college science.

It had been unnerving for a second. So that was how haunted houses got their reputation. He glanced about him. The porch was deserted, of course. The wind still whispered its cold breath through the rhythmically swaying pines. Again came a faint scent of jasmine on the night wind. G.o.d! It was so peaceful here! So cold and lonely! He closed his eyes and s.h.i.+vered, unreasonably content for the moment. Like being alone with someone you love very much. Just the two of you and the night.

"Gerry! For G.o.d's sake, are you all right?"

He catapulted out of the rocker. "What! What? Of course I am! d.a.m.n it all, stop screaming! What's wrong with you?" Janet was at the top of the staircase. She called down half in relief, half in alarm. "Well, I heard a gla.s.s smash, and you didn't answer when I called you at first. I was afraid you'd fallen or something and were maybe hurt. I was about to start down these steps, if you hadn't answered." Gerry groaned and said with ponderous patience, "Well, I'm all right, thank you. Just dropped a gla.s.s. Turn down the television next time, and maybe I'll hear you."

"The TV's off." (So that was why she took time to think of him.) "It's started acting crazy again like last night. Can you take a look at it now? It always seems to work okay in the daytime."

She paused and sniffed loudly. "Gerry, do you smell something? "

"Just mountain flowers. Why?"

"No, I mean do you smell something rotten? Can't you smell it? I've noticed it several times at night. It smells like something dead is in the cabin."

*V*

Gerry had been trying to move an old trunk when he found the diary. The rusty footlocker had been shoved into one of the closets upstairs, and Janet insisted that he lug the battered eyesore downstairs. Gerry grumbled while dragging the heavy locker to the stairs, but its lock was rusted tight, and he was not able to remove the junk inside first. So it was with grim amus.e.m.e.nt that he watched the trunk slip from his grasp and careen down the narrow stairs. At the bottom it burst open like a rotten melon and dumped its musty contents across the floor.

Clothes and books mostly A squirrel had chewed entrance at one point and shredded most of it, while mildew had ruined the remainder. Gerry righted the broken trunk and carelessly tossed the scattered trash back inside. Let someone else decide what to do with it.

There was a leather-bound notebook. Its cover was thrown back, and he noted the t.i.tle page: Diary. Enser Pittman. June-December, 1951. Gerry looked at the footlocker in alarm. Were these the possessions of that artist, left unclaimed after his suicide?

He set the diary aside until he had cleared away the rest of the debris. Then he succ.u.mbed to morbid curiosity and sat down to thumb through the artist's journal. Some of the pages had been chewed away, others were welded together with mould and crumbled as he tried to separate them. But he could read enough to fasten his attention to the tattered diary.

The first few entries were not especially interesting-mostly gloomy comments on the war in Korea and the witch hunts at home, the stupidity of his agent, and what a b.i.t.c.h Arlene was. On June 27, Pittman had arrived at The Crow's Nest for a rest and to try his hand at mountain-scapes. From that point, certain pa.s.sages of the diary a.s.sumed a chilling fascination for Gerry.

June 28. Went out for a stroll through the woods today, surprisingly without getting lost or eaten by bears. Splendid pine forest! After N.Y.'s hollow sterile canyons, this is fantastic! G.o.d! How strange to be alone! I walked for hours without seeing a soul-or a human. And the carpet of pine needles-so unlike that interminable asphalt-concrete desert! Pure desolation! I feel reborn! Extraordinary those pines. Can't recall any sound so lonely as the wind whispering through their branches. Weird! After N.Y.'s incessant mind-rotting clamor. If I can only express this solitude, this unearthly loneliness on canvas! Fahler is an odious cretin! Landscapes are not trite-rather, the expression has cloyed...

June 30. Haven't found those flowers yet. Guess the night breeze carries the scent a long way. Didn't know jasmine grew here. Weird. At nights it almost feels like a woman's perfume...

July 2. The horns are growing. Several times at night now I've definitely sensed a woman's presence in the darkness. Strange how my imagination can almost give substance to shadow. I can almost make myself visualize her just at the corner of my vision...

July 4. Wow! Too much wine of the G.o.ds, Enser! Last time I get patriotic! A little excess of Chianti to celebrate the glorious 4th, I drop off in my chair, and Jesus! Wake up to see a girl bending over me! Nice trick, too! Looked like something out of a Held ill.u.s.tration! Vanished about the time my eyes could focus. Wonder what Freud would say to that!...

July 7. Either this place is haunted, or I'm going to have to go looking for that proverbial farmer's daughter. Last night I woke up with the distinct impression that there was a woman in bed beside me. Scared? Christ! Like a childhood nightmare! I was actually afraid to reach over-even turn my head to look-and find out if someone was really there. When I finally did check-nothing, of course-I almost imagined I could see a depression on the mattress. The old grey matter is starting to short out...

(The next several pages were too mutilated to decipher, and Gerry pieced together the rest only with extreme difficulty.) .. .seems to know the whole story, tho it's hard to say how much the good reverend doth impart. Banner's a real character-strictly old-time evangelist. Mostly the same story as Pennybacker's and the other loafers-except Rev. Banner seems to have known Luttle somewhat. Renee was a "woman of Satan," but to him doubtless any "fancy city woman" would reek of sin and G.o.dlessness. Anyway his version is that she married Reagan for the bread, but planned to keep her hand in all the same. She seduced Sam Luttle and drove him from the path of righteousness into the mora.s.s of sinfulness and adultery. In Banner's opinion Renee only got... (half a page missing)... no trace of Renee's body was ever discovered. Still it was a.s.sumed Reagan had murdered her, since she never turned up again in Greenville or anywhere else-and Reagan seemed definitely to have been on the run when he drove off the mountain. Here Banner gets a bit vague, and it's hard to tell if he's just getting theatrical. Still he insists that when they found Reagan with his throat guillotined by the winds.h.i.+eld, there wasn't a tenth as much blood spilled about the body as would be expected. Same regarding Luttle's death. Superficial scratches except the torn throat, and only a small pool of blood. Banner doesn't believe the bear explanation, but I don't get what...

(pages missing) ... know whether my mind is going or whether this cabin is actually haunted.

July 15. I saw her again last night. This time she was standing at the edge of the pines beyond the front door-seemed to be looking at me. The image lasted maybe 15-20 seconds this time, long enough to get a good look. She's a perfect likeness of the description of Renee. This is really getting bizarre! I'm not quite sure whether I should be frightened or fascinated. I wonder why there haven't been any other reports of this place being haunted...

July 16. I've started to paint her. Wonder what Fahler will say to a portrait of a ghost. It's getting easier now to see her, and she stays visible longer too-maybe she's getting accustomed to me. G.o.d-I keep thinking of that old ghost story, "The Beckoning Fair One"! Hope this won't...

July 17. I find I can concentrate on Renee at nights now, and she appears more readily-more substantial. Painting is progressing well. She seems interested. Think I'll try to talk with her next. Still unsure whether this is psychic phenomenon or paranoid hallucination. We'll see-meanwhile, d.a.m.ned if Enser will let anyone else in on this. Tho aren't artists supposed to be mad?

July 18. Decided to use the pines for background. Took a long walk this afternoon. Strange to think that Renee probably lies in an unmarked grave somewhere under this carpet of pine needles. Lonely grave-no wonder she doesn't rest. She smiles when she comes to me. My little spirit remained all of 5 - 6 minutes last night. Tonight...

(pages missing) ... to no one other than myself, and I think I understand. This goes back to something Bok once talked about. Spirits inhabit a plane other than our own-another dimension, say. Most spirits and most mortals are firmly anch.o.r.ed to their separate worlds. Exceptions exist. Certain spirits retain some ties with this world. Renee presumably because of her violent death, secret grave-who knows? The artist also is less firmly linked to this humdrum mortal plane-his creativity, his imagination transcends the normal world. Then I am more sensitive to manifestations of another plane than others; Renee is more readily perceived than other spirits. Result: Our favorite insane artist sees ghosts where countless dullards slept soundly. By this line of reasoning anyone can become a bona fide jr. ghost.w.a.tcher, if something occurs to make him more susceptible to their manifestations. Madmen, psychic adepts, the dying, those close to the deceased, those who have been torn loose from their normal life pattern...

... for maybe half the night. I think I'm falling in love with her. Talk about the ultimate in necrophilia!

July 26. The painting is almost complete. Last night she stayed with me almost until dawn. She seems far more substantial now-too substantial for a ghost. Wonder if I'm just getting more adept at perceiving her, or whether Renee is growing more substantial with my belief in her...

July 27. She wanted me to follow her last night. I walked maybe a mile through the dark pines before my nerve failed. Maybe she was taking me to her grave. It's auditory now: Last night I heard her footsteps. I'll swear she leaves tracks in the dust, leaves an impression on the cus.h.i.+ons when she sits. She watches me, listens-only no words yet. Maybe tonight she'll speak. She smiles when I tell her I love her.

July 28. I swear I heard her speak! Renee said she loved me! She wants me to return her love! Only a few words-just before she disappeared into the pines. And she seemed as substantial as any living girl! Either I'm hopelessly insane, or I'm on the verge of an unthinkable psychic discovery! Tonight I'm going to know for certain. Tonight I'm going to touch Renee. I'm going to hold her in my arms and not let her go until I know whether I'm mad, the victim of an incredible hoax, or a man in love with a ghost!

It was the last entry.

*VI*

Lonzo Pennybacker gave directions to the house of the elderly Baptist preacher. Eventually Gerry found the right dirt road and drove up to a well-kept house at the head of a mountain cove. Flowers bloomed in the yard, and dogs were having a melee with a pack of noisy children. The house presented a clean, honest front-a far cry from the squalor Gerry had expected in a mountain home.

Rev. Billy Banner sat in a porch rocker and rose to meet Gerry.

He was an alert man in his seventies or better, lean and strong without a trace of weakness or senility. His eyes were clear, and his voice still carried the deep intonations that had rained h.e.l.lfire and d.a.m.nation on his congregation for decades.

After shaking hands, Banner motioned him to a chair, politely waited for his guest to come to business. This was difficult. Gerry was uncertain what questions to ask, what explanations to offer-or what he really wanted to find out. But Banner sensed his uneasiness and expertly drew from him the reason for his visit. Gerry explained he was staying at the old Reagan cabin, that he was interested in the artist Enser Pittman who had killed himself there.

"Enser Pittman?" The old man nodded. "Yes, I remember him well enough. He paid me a visit once, just like you today. Maybe for the same reason."

Plunging on, Gerry asked about the history of the cabin and was told little he had not already learned. Rev. Banner spoke with reluctance of the old tragedy, seemed to suspect more than he was willing to put into words.

"Do you have any idea what might have driven Pittman to suicide?" Gerry asked finally.

The preacher kept silent until Gerry wondered if he would ignore the question. "Suicide? That was the verdict, sure enough. They found him mother-naked in bed, his throat tore open and a razor beside him. Been dead a few days-likely it had been done the last of July. No sign of struggle, nothing gone, no enemies. Artists are kind of funny anyway. And some claimed he had cancer. So maybe it was suicide like the coroner said. Maybe not. Wasn't much blood on the sheets for a man to be cut like that, they tell me. All the same, I hope it was suicide, and not something worse."

"I thought suicide was the unforgivable sin."

"There's things worse." Banner looked at him shrewdly. "Maybe you know what I mean. The Bible talks about witches and ghosts and a lot of other things we think we're too wise to believe in today. That Renee Reagan was a daughter of Satan, sure as I'm sitting here remembering her. Well, I'm an old man, but no one's ever called me an old fool, so I'll just stop talking."

Feeling uncomfortable without knowing why, Gerry thanked the preacher and rose to go. Rev. Banner stood up to see him off, then laid a sinewy hand on his shoulder at the edge of the porch.

"I don't know just what sort of trouble you got that's bothering you, son," he began, fixing Gerry with his keen eyes. "But I do know there's something about the old Reagan place that gets to some kinds of people. If that's the way it is with you, then you better get back to where it is you come from. And if you do stay on here, then just remember that Evil can't harm a righteous man so long as he denies its power and holds to the way of Our Lord Jesus Christ and his Gospel. But once you accept Evil-once you let Evil into your life and permit its power to influence your soul-then it's got you body and soul, and you're only a plaything for all the devils of h.e.l.l!

"You've got that lost look about you, son. Maybe you can hear that h.e.l.l-bound train a-calling to you. But don't you listen to its call. Son, don't you climb on board!"

*VII*

With a strange mixture of dread and antic.i.p.ation, Gerry broke away from Janet's mawkish attempts to make conversation and retired to the lower veranda for the evening. All afternoon he had thought about returning to Columbus, forgetting this mystery. Yet he knew he could not. For one thing, he had to stay until he could be certain of his own sanity. Barring madness, this entire uncanny business must be either hoax or genuine. If it were an elaborate hoax, Gerry wanted to know who, how and why. And if the cabin were haunted... He had to know.

But it was deeper than the simple desire to explore an occult phenomenon. Renee-whoever, whatever she might be-held a profound fascination for him. Her image obsessed him. He thought of this pa.s.sionate, exotic woman of another era; then there was Janet. Bitterness returned, and again the memory of the son and the ordered world her moronic carelessness had torn from him. Right now she was sitting like a mushroom, spellbound by that b.o.o.b-tube, never a concern for her husband's misery.

His thoughts were of Renee when sleep overcame him. In dream he saw her drift through the screen door and greet him with redlipped smile. She was so vivacious, so desirable! Pittman's painting had held only the shadow of her feline beauty.

Gracefully she poured two fingers of Gerry's Scotch and tossed it down neat, eyes wide with devilish challenge. Bringing the bottle with her, she took the chair beside his own. Her long fingers cozily touched his arm. "Nice of you to offer a lady a drink," she grinned impishly. "Good Scotch is so hard to get now. Been saving this stuff in your cellar since before Volstead-or is this just off the boat?"

"Oh, the Prohibition's been repealed for years now," Gerry heard himself say dully, as in a dream. It was a dream. Renee cast no reflection in the barroom mirror.

"Sure honey." She laughed teasingly. "Say, lover-you look all down in the dumps tonight. Care to tell a girl all about it?"

And Gerry began to tell Renee the story of his life. As the night grew deeper, he told her of his struggle to become successful in his work, his efforts to build a position for himself in society, his marriage to a woman who couldn't understand him, his son for whom he had hoped everything, Janet's accident and the death of all his aspirations. Quietly she listened to him, eyes intent with sympathy. G.o.d! Why couldn't Janet ever show such feeling, such interest! Always too busy feeling sorry for herself!

When he finished, mechanical sobs shook his angular frame. Renee expressed a wordless cry of concern and laid a white arm around his shoulder. "Hey, c'mon now, Gerry! Get it all out of your system! You've really had a tough break or two, but we can work it out now, can't we? Here now-think about this instead!"

She slithered onto his lap and captured his lips in a long kiss. Somewhere in the kiss Gerry opened his eyes. With a gasp he started from his chair. No one was there, of course.

G.o.d! What a dream! His lips felt bruised, unnaturally cold-even her kiss had felt real. Got to go easy on the bottle. Still, if this was DTs, it was pleasant enough. G.o.d! Had he ever carried on! That psychiatrist would have had a picnic. He reached for the Scotch. Empty. Had he had that much to drink? No wonder the dream.

Was it a dream? Gerry looked about him suspiciously The chair beside him seemed maybe closer, although he really hadn't noticed it earlier. An empty gla.s.s on the floor-but maybe he'd left it there before. That peculiar scent of jasmine again-wonder what perfume Renee had worn? Absurd-it was mountain flowers. He touched his lips and there was blood on his fingers.

*VIII*

"I'm going out for a walk," he told Janet after breakfast.

"Can't you stay around here today for a change?" she asked wistfully. "Or let's go someplace together. You've been off so much lately, I hardly get to see you. And it's so lonely here without anyone around."

"Without a phone to gossip with all the b.i.t.c.hes in your bridge club," he snapped. "Well, I'm not sitting on my a.s.s all afternoon watching television. If you want company, then walk along with me!"

"Gerry," she began shakily. "You know I can't..."

"No, I don't know! The doctors say you can walk whenever you want to! You're just so content playing the invalid, you won't even try to walk again!"

Her eyes clouded. "Gerry! That was cruel!"

"The truth though, wasn't it!" he exploded. "Well, d.a.m.n it, snap out of it! I'm getting disgusted with waiting on you hand and foot-tying myself down to someone who can't stop feeling sorry for herself long enough to..."

"Gerry!" Janet clenched her fists. "Stop it! What's happening to us! For the last several days you've been getting ever sharper with me! You shun me-avoid my company like you hated me! For G.o.d's sake, Gerry, what is the matter!"

He turned from her in wordless contempt and strode off into the pine forest. She called after him until he was beyond earshot.

The pines! How restful they were after her miserable whimpering! The dense shade, the deep carpet of fallen needles choked out undergrowth. The dark, straight trunks stabbed toward the sunlight above, leaving a rough shaft branchless for dozens of feet. It was so pleasant to walk among them. The needles were a resilient carpet that deadened all sound. The trunks were myriad pillars to support a vaulted ceiling of swaying green boughs.

It was eerie here in the pines. So unlike a hardwood forest, alive with crackling leaves and a wild variety of trees and underbrush. The pines were so awesome, so ancient, so desolate. The incredible loneliness of this twilight wilderness a.s.sailed Gerry-and strangely soothed the turmoil of his emotions.

The restless wind moved the branches above him in ceaseless song. Sighing, whispering pines. Here was the very sound of loneliness. Again Gerry recalled the old mountain folk tune: The longest train I ever saw, Was a hundred coaches long, And the only girl I ever loved, Was on that train and gone.

In the pines, in the pines, Where the sun never s.h.i.+nes, And I s.h.i.+ver when the wind blows cold.

What was happening to him? A year ago he would have laughed at the absurd idea of ghosts or haunted houses. Had he changed so much since then-since the accident?

No, this couldn't actually be happening to him. He must try to examine all the facts with the same clear, down-to-earth att.i.tude he formerly would have taken. He had come here with his nerves in bad shape-on the verge of a breakdown, the doctors had implied. Then he'd found an unusual painting and read through the diary of a deranged artist. Nerves and too much Scotch had got the best of his disordered imagination, and he had a.s.sumed the same delusions as poor Pittman. Add to that the stories of the place he had gleaned from the locals, and his newborn romantic streak had run wild-to the point he was sharing Pittman's own mad hallucinations. Similarities were not surprising; the circ.u.mstances that induced the delusions were the same, and he had Pittman's notes to direct him.

Besides, if the Reagan place were haunted, why had no one else seen anything out of the ordinary? Pittman in his egotism had claimed his artistic soul made it possible for him to perceive what lesser minds had missed. But Gerry had no artistic pretensions or illusions of paranormal talents.

Pittman had suggested that someone might become susceptible to the spirit world if he had somehow become alienated from his normal plane of existence. Gerry shrugged mentally. Perhaps then he had become receptive to the other world when the protection of his safe middle-cla.s.s existence had collapsed about him. But now he was accepting the logic of a suicide.

He paused in bewilderment. The pine forest had suddenly a.s.sumed a sense of familiarity. Curiously Gerry studied his surroundings-then it occurred to him. Granted the pa.s.sage of time, this section of the forest resembled the background in the painting of Renee. He had half a.s.sumed Pittman had done a stylized portrayal, rather than an actual landscape. How odd to happen upon the same grove of pines and then to recognize it from the painting.

Why had Pittman chosen this particular section of the pines? Probably he had simply wandered to this spot just as Gerry had done. Still, perhaps there was something that made this spot especially attractive to the artist.

Gerry stood in silence. Was it imagination again? Did the sun seem to s.h.i.+ne less brightly here? Did the pines seem to loom darker, with a shadow of menace? Was the whisper of the pines louder here, and was there a note of depravity in the loneliness of the sound? Why were there no cries of birds, no sounds of life, other than the incessant murmur of the brooding pines? And why was there a bare circle of earth where not even the pines grew?

Gerry s.h.i.+vered. He hurried from the spot, no longer so certain of his logic.

*IX*

Janet was sulking when Gerry returned, and they studiously avoided each other for the remainder of the day. Monosyllables were exchanged when conversation was unavoidable, and whatever went through the mind of either was left to fester unexpressed. Mechanically Janet prepared dinner, although neither felt like eating.

"I can't take this!" Janet finally blurted. "I don't know what's happened to us since we got here, but we're tearing ourselves apart. This just hasn't worked for us, Gerry. Tomorrow I want to go home." Gerry sighed ponderously. "Now look. We came here so you could rest. And now already you want to go back."

"Gerry, I can't stand it here! Every day I've felt you grow farther away from me! I don't know if it's just this place, or if it's us-but I do know we've got to leave!"

"We'll talk about it in the morning," he said wearily, and stood up. Janet's lips were set. "Right! Now go on downstairs and drink yourself to sleep! That's the pattern, isn't it? You can't bear to be around me, so you get as far away as you can! And you stumble around all day either drunk or hungover! Always bleary-eyed, paunchy and surly! Gerry, I can't take this any longer!"

He retreated stolidly. "Go to bed, Janet. We'll talk this over in the morning."

"d.a.m.n it, Gerry! I've tried to be patient. The doctors warned me you'd made an unhealthy adjustment to the accident-just because you came out no worse than hungover! But if this doesn't stop, I'm going to ask for a separation!"

Gerry halted, angry retorts poised on his tongue. No, let her yell. Ignore her. "Good night, Janet," he grated and fled downstairs.

Angrily he gulped down half a gla.s.s of straight Scotch. G.o.d! This Scotch was the only thing that held their marriage together-made this situation tolerable. And, he noticed, his stock of Scotch was just about gone.

Divorce! Well, why not! Let the leech live off alimony for the rest of her years. It was almost worth paying to be rid of her! Let her divorce him then! She'd made a ruin of everything else in his life-might as well finish the job right!

Once again he thought of Renee. There was a woman to love, to desire-a woman who could stand on her own two feet, who could return his love with fall pa.s.sion of her own! She and Janet shared their s.e.x with no more in common than a leopardess and a cow. No wonder Pittman had fallen in love with his phantasy of Renee!