Part 2 (1/2)

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.”