Gemini Rising. Brian McNaughton
in my bed. Did you ever know things like that when you were dreaming?”
Marcia considered. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“It was the first time I ever had a dream like that, knowing those things, and it scared me. Then—in the dream, still—I was lying in my bed, and my brother was trying to get into this world through me, sort of. He was trying to get inside my head and take me over, so that he could be in this world.”
Marcia was satisfied that her earlier guess had been correct. Melody’s dream had been blatantly, outrageously sexual. The elongated arms and legs, the tall mountains, the lake, the fear of penetration—it was a virgin’s nightmare. She smiled softly to herself.
Melody startled her by abruptly changing the subject and asking, “What do you suppose ever happened to the ghost?”
Marcia shook her head in mock exasperation. “Do you realize that it’s five o’clock in the morning, miss? The ghost didn’t have anything to do with your nightmare, so let’s not start setting you up for another one.”
Melody walked listlessly to the bed, apparently ready for sleep again. “This brother I had in the dream—something about the way I felt reminded me of the way I used to feel when the ghost was around. I can’t pin it down any better than that, but it was the same kind of feeling.”
“The unknown, that’s all,” Marcia suggested. “The unfamiliar. That’s all they have in common. Both scary in the same way.”
“Maybe,” Melody said dubiously, slipping between the sheets.
“No more nightmares, okay?” Marcia kissed her on the forehead. “Shall I leave a light on?”
“I’m not a baby,” Melody said with a touch of vexation. More softly, she said, “I’m sorry I woke you, Mom.”
Marcia wanted to run back and hug her, hard. Instead, she said lightly, “Don’t mention it. That’s what mothers are for.”
After determining that the other children were sleeping soundly—with Karen now in Roger’s bed—Marcia went down to the kitchen. She turned on no lights at first, but gazed through the sliding doors at the pale glow in the sky and wondered if it were the dawn, or the glow of reflected lights on low clouds. She wanted to step out onto the wet grass and feel the rain touching her face, but some impulse toward matronly propriety restrained her.
The ghost. She had been thinking about that earlier this evening. They had all called it the ghost, although it had apparently been a more academically respectable and well-documented phenomenon: a poltergeist.
Whatever it was, it had driven Ken right up the wall. Here was this showpiece he had built, this testimonial to his skill as an architect—and it had a ghost in it. He had denied its existence. He had accused Melody—bitterly, at times—of faking its manifestations. He had tried to suppress publicity with paranoid zeal.
The ghost had stayed with them for six months, approximately two years ago. Windows had shattered spontaneously. Objects had been hurled across rooms with explosive force—in one instance, a desk that Melody couldn’t possibly have lifted, much less thrown across a room. Monstrous footfalls had been heard. Everyone had taken it rather well except Lucifer, who had been totally demoralized; and of course Ken, who had seen it as an obscure practical joke reflecting on his professional ability.
The story had leaked out. A team of researchers from a prestigious university had worn down Ken’s opposition and turned the house into an electronics laboratory for a week or so. The ghost had disappointed them, not stirring a finger while they were here. Once they were gone, it indulged in a final orgy of china-smashing and table-toppling. Then it had disappeared, apparently for good.
Melody had been absolved early of any direct responsibility; but one of the researchers had told Marcia that adolescent girls were often to be found in the neighborhood of such phenomena. He had theorized—with many qualifications—that an unconscious, uncontrolled outburst of psychic energy from such an adolescent was at the root of the trouble.
While standing at the kitchen door, Marcia had been aware of a strange noise for some time, and now it began to register on her consciousness. It was a kind of whistle, so high-pitched as to be almost inaudible, coming and going with a predictable regularity. She took an involuntary step back from the glass door as a shadow fell on it. The noise became ever so slightly louder and deeper: It was unmistakably a whimper: the anguished sound of a creature that desperately wanted to call for help without drawing too much attention to itself.
“Lucy?” she cried, struggling with the catch of the door. “Lucy!”
The door and the screen slid open, and almost simultaneously, a hard wet body bolted in, nearly knocking her off her feet. She heard a frenzied scrabble of claws as Lucifer dove under the kitchen table, a thud as his head hit the wall.
“For God’s sake, Lucy!” she cried, snapping on the kitchen light. “You scared us all half to death. Where on earth have you been?”
Under the table, Lucifer’s huge black-and-tan body shuddered in uncontrollable spasms. He was soaked and muddy. His dark, liquid eyes seemed to plead for mercy.
“What happened, Lucy? You’re a good boy. There’s a good doggie. You’re safe.…”
She reached under the table.
A deep growl rumbled in Lucifer’s massive chest.
CHAPTER SIX
Having covered the Planning Board the previous night, Marcia didn’t have to be at the Banner office until noon. After seeing Ken and the kids off, she was thinking about going back to bed for an hour or so when the phone rang.
“Damn it!” She had almost tripped over Lucy, who always raced her for the phone when it rang.
“What?” asked the voice on the phone.
“I’m sorry. Hello.”
“Marcie?” It was Jack Higgins, the managing editor. “What’ve you got cooking today?”
“Well…” Marcia wasn’t good at coming up with fast answers to questions like that, and Higgins knew it. He had trapped her into more than one dismal assignment by taking advantage of this failing.
“Good… There’s this old screwball out at Blackwood’s Corners who’s been seeing things. Called me up yesterday afternoon as I was leaving the office. His name is…dum dum dum…Peachtree, believe it or not, and they know where to find him at the general store. Do it now, before he has second thoughts about spilling his guts. You can sell it to the wires if you want to, but save something for us.”
“Wait a minute,” she said hastily, before the editor could indulge his fondness for hanging up on a mystifying note. “What’s he been seeing? What’s this all about?”
“He didn’t want to say much over the phone. He’s crazy, probably. But we haven’t had a good Jersey Devil story in five years or so, and I figure it’s about time. If you really think this guy is off in outer space, if he doesn’t know what day it is, then forget it. Otherwise, keep it light.”
“Don’t hang up, Jack! What’s the Jersey Devil?”
“Jeez, kid, where’ve you been? That’s what keeps the presses rolling when nothing else is going on. We got clips up the kazoo. Look them over. According to one version, a halfwit got herself raped by the Devil back in colonial times, and the offspring has been running around loose in the pines ever since. It’s supposed to be like a giant kangaroo with bat’s wings, no kidding, plus other embellishments that slip my mind at the moment.”
Marcia groaned. “This sounds like a job for Ron Green.”
“Rongreen—” even to his face, Higgins often spoke the name as if it were one word, perhaps the name of a condition related to gangrene “—the very name that came first to my mind, but he’s out chasing hippies. Our fair township is being overrun by them, Rongreen says.”