The Witching Hour Read online

  Matt put the bills in the slot under the grillwork. “Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed. “Well, thank you.”

  “Thank you!”

  Matt lifted his hand. The money lifted with it. The package stuck to his hand as if it had been attached with glue.

  “Excuse me,” he said feebly. “I can’t seem to get rid of this money.” He shook his hand. The money clung stubbornly. He shook his hand again, violently. The package of bills did not budge.

  “Very funny,” the teller said, but he was not smiling. From his tone of voice, Matt suspected that he thought money was a very serious business indeed. The teller reached under the bars and caught hold of one end of the package. “You can let go now,” he said. “Let go!”

  Matt tried to pull his hand away. “I can’t,” he said, breathing heavily.

  The teller tugged, Matt tugged. “I haven’t time to play games,” the teller panted. “Let go!”

  “I don’t want it,” Matt said frantically. “But it seems to be stuck. Look!” He showed his hand, fingers spread wide.

  The teller grabbed the bundle of bills with both hands and braced his feet against the front of his cubicle. “Let go!” he shouted.

  Matt pulled hard. Suddenly the tension on his arm vanished. His arm whipped back. The teller disappeared into the bottom of the cubicle. Something clanged hollowly. Matt looked at his hand. The bills were gone.

  Slowly the teller’s head appeared from the concealed part of the cubicle. It came up, accompanied by groans, with a red swelling in the middle of the bald spot. After it came the teller’s hand, waving the package of twenties triumphantly. The other hand was rubbing his head.

  “Are you still here?” he demanded, slamming the bills down at his side. “Get out of this bank. And if you ever come back, I’ll have you arrested for — for disturbing the peace.”

  “Don’t worry,” Matt said. “I won’t be back.” His face suddenly grew pale. “Stop!” he said frantically, waving his arms. “Go back!”

  The teller stared at him fearfully, indecisively.

  The bundle of twenties was rising over the top of the cage again. Instinctively Matt grabbed them out of the air. His mind worked rapidly. If he was to keep out of jail, there was only one thing to do. He advanced on the teller angrily, waving the bills in the air. “What do you mean by throwing these at me!”

  “Throwing money?” the teller said weakly. “Me?”

  Matt shook the bills in front of the teller’s nose. “What do you call this?”

  The clerk glanced at the money and down at his side. “Oh, no!” he moaned.

  “I have a good mind,” Matt said violently, “to complain to the president of this bank.” He slammed the bills down. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer. “Tellers throwing money around!”

  He took his hand away. Blissfully the money stayed where it was on the counter. The teller reached for it feebly. The package shifted. He reached again. The bills slid away. He stuck both hands through the slot and groped wildly. The money slipped between his arms into the cage.

  Matt stood shifting his weight from foot to foot, paralyzed between flight and fascination. The bundle winged its way around in the cage like a drunken butterfly. Wide-eyed and frantic, the teller chased it from side to side. He made great diving swoops for it, his hands cupped into a net. He crept up on it and pounced, catlike, only to have it slip between his fingers at the last moment. Suddenly he stopped, frozen. His hands flew to his head.

  “My God!” he screamed. “What am I doing? I’ve gone mad!”

  He reached into the piles of money on the shelf and scooped up huge handfuls. He tossed them into the air with the frenzied expression of a bacchant. The bank became filled with a green, drifting snow. “Money money money money money … cdq>

  Matt backed toward the door. The other clerks and tellers were running toward the center of the disturbance. Matt saw a dignified gentleman with a paunch stand up inside a railed-in office and hurdle the obstacle with fine form.

  Matt turned and ran, dodging the guard at the gate. “Get the doctor!” he yelled.

  From somewhere came the sound of laughter, like the tinkling of little silver bells.

  There was no doubt in Matt’s mind as he gunned his car out of Clinton. Abbie was after him. He had not been free a moment. All the time she had known where to find him. He was the fleeing mouse, happy in his illusion of freedom — until the cat’s paw comes down on his back. Matt thought of the Furies — awful Alecto, Tisiphone, Megaera — in their bloodstained robes and serpent hair pursuing him across the world with their terrible whips. But they all had Abbie’s face.

  Matt drove north toward Kansas City, thirsty, starving, half-dead from fatigue, wondering hopelessly where it would end.

  Darkening shades of violet were creeping up the eastern sky as Matt reached Lawrence, Kansas. He had not tried to stop in Kansas City. Something had drawn him on, some buried hope that still survived feebly, and when, five miles from Lawrence, he had seen Mount Oread rise against the sunset, the white spires and red tile roofs of the university gleaming like beacons, he had known what it was.

  Here was a citadel of knowledge, a fortress of the world’s truth against black waves of ignorance and superstition. Here, in this saner atmosphere of study and reflection, logic and cool consideration, here, if anywhere, he could shake off this dark conviction of doom that sapped his will. Here, surely, he could think more clearly, act more decisively, rid himself of this demon of vengeance that rode his shoulders. Here he could get help.

  He drove down Massachusetts Street, his body leaden with fatigue, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed, searching restlessly from side to side. His hunger was only a dull ache; he could almost forget it. But his thirst was a live thing. Somewhere — he could not remember where — he had eaten and drunk, but they had vanished from his throat as he swallowed.

  Is there no end? he thought wildly. Is there no way out? There was, of course. There always is. Always — Mary had a little lamb…

  Impulse swung his car into the diagonal parking space. First he was going to drink and eat. Come what may. He walked into the restaurant. Summer students filled the room, young men in sport shirts and slacks, girls in bright cotton prints and flat shoes, laughing, talking, eating.

  Swaying in the doorway, Matt watched them, bleary-eyed, Once I was like them, he thought dully. Young and alive and conscious that these were the best years I would ever know. Now I am old and used up, doomed.

  He slumped down at a table near the front, filled with a great surge of sorrow that all happiness was behind him. He was conscious that the waitress was beside him. “Soup,” he mumbled. “Soup and milk.” He did not look up.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar, but they are all the same, all the voices of youth. He had eaten here before. He did not look up.

  Slowly he raised the glass of water to his lips. It went down his throat in dusty gulps. It spread out in his stomach in cool, blessed waves. Matt closed his eyes thankfully. The hunger pains began to return. For a moment Matt regretted the soup and wished he had ordered steak.

  After the soup, he thought.

  The soup came. Matt lifted a spoonful. He let it trickle down his throat.

  “Feelin’ better, Mr. Wright?” said the waitress.

  Matt looked up. He strangled. It was Abbie! Abbie’s face bending over him! Matt choked and spluttered. Students turned to stare. Matt gazed around the room wildly. The girls — they all looked like Abbie! He stood up, almost knocking over the table. He ran to the front door.

  With his hand on the doorknob, he stopped, paralyzed. Staring in at him, through the glass, was a pair of bloodshot eyes set above an unruly black nest. Stooped, powerful shoulders loomed behind the face. As Matt stared back, the eyes lighted up as if they recognized him.

  “Argh-gh!” Matt screamed.

  He staggered back and turned on trembling legs. He tottered toward the back of the restaurant. The aisle seem
ed full of feet put out to trip him. He stumbled to the swinging kitchen door and broke through into odors of frying and baking that no longer moved him.

  The cook looked up, startled. Matt ran on through the kitchen and plunged through the back door. The alley was dark. Matt barked his shins on a box. He limped on, cursing. At one end of the alley a street light spread a pool of welcome. Matt ran toward it. He was panting. His heart beat fast. Then it almost stopped. A shadow lay along the mouth of the alley. A long shadow with huge shoulders and something that waved from the chin.

  Matt spun. He ran frantically toward the other end of the alley. His mind raced like an engine that has broken its governor. Nightmarish terror streaked through his arms and legs; they seemed distant and leaden. The other end approached slowly. He came nearer. Nearer.

  A shadow detached itself from the dark black walls. But it was no shadow. Matt slowed, stopped. The shadow came closer, towering tall above him. Matt cowered, unable to move. Closer. Two long arms reached out toward him. Matt quivered. He waited for the end. The arms wrapped around him. They drew him close.

  “Son, son,” Jenkins said weakly. “Yore the first familiar face I seen all day.”

  Matt’s heart started beating again. He drew back, extracting his face from Jenkins’s redolent beard.

  “Cain’t understand what’s goin’ on these days,” Jenkins said, shaking his head sadly, “but I got a feelin’ Ab’s behint it. Just as that fight got goin’ good, the whole shebang disappeared and here I was. Where am I, son?”

  “Kansas,” Matt said. “Lawrence, Kansas.”

  “Kansas?” Jenkins wobbled his beard. “Last I heard, Kansas was dry, but it cain’t be half as dry as I am. I recollect hearin’ Quantrill burned this town. Too bad it didn’t stay burnt. Here I was without a penny in my pocket and only what was left in the bottle I had in my hand to keep me from dyin’ of thirst. Son,” he said sorrowfully, “something’s got to be did. It’s Ab, ain’t it?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Son,” Jenkins went on, “I’m gettin’ too old for this kind of life. I should be settin’ on my porch with a jug in my lap, just a-rockin’ slow. Somethin’s got to be did about that gal.”

  “I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” Matt said.

  “That’s the trouble,” Jenkins said mournfully. “Been too late these six years. Son, yore an edicated man. What we gonna do?”

  “I can’t tell you, Jenkins,” Matt said. “I can’t even think about it.” Mary had a little lamb”If I did, it wouldn’t work. But if you want to hit me, go ahead. I’m the man who’s responsible.”

  Jenkins put a large hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, son. If it weren’t you, it would’ve been some other man. When Ab gets a notion, you cain’t beat it out of her, and there ain’t no man alive can make her happy. When she’s riled, she’s worse’n all the witches in Tophet.”

  Matt pulled out his billfold and handed Jenkins a ten-dollar bill. “Here. Kansas isn’t dry any more. Go get something and try to forget. Maybe when you’re finished with that, things will have changed.”

  “Yore a good boy, son. Don’t do nothin’ rash.”

  Mary had a little lamb…

  Jenkins turned, raising his hand in a parting salute. Matt watched the mountainous shadow dwindle, as if it was his last contact with the living. Then Jenkins rounded the corner and was out of sight.

  Matt walked slowly back to Massachusetts Street. There was one more thing he had to do.

  As he reached the car, Matt sensed Abbie’s nearness. The awareness was so sharp that it was almost physical. He felt her all around, like dancing motes of dust that are only visible under certain conditions, half-angel, half-devil, half-love, half-hate. It was an unendurable mixture, an impossible combination to live with. The extremes were too great.

  Matt sighed. It was not Abbie’s fault. Science had got him into this

  — science and the pursuit of knowledge. But science has no power over a woman. It can liberate but it cannot understand. Abbie had become a woman with the powers of a goddess. Not that she wanted them. All she ever wanted was a husband. But he had forced them on her. It was his fault. Inevitably he would pay for it. The universe has an immutable law of action and reaction.

  It was dark as Matt drove along Seventh Street. The night was warm, and the infrequent street lights were only beacons for night-flying insects. Matt turned a corner and pulled up in front of a big old house surrounded by an ornamental iron fence. The house was two-story stucco, painted yellow — or perhaps it had once been white — and the fence sagged in places.

  Matt rang the bell. In a moment the door opened. Blinking out of the light was Professor Franklin, the chairman of his department.

  “Matt!” Franklin said. “I didn’t recognize you for a second. What are you doing back so soon? I thought you were secluded in the Ozarks. Don’t tell me you have your book finished already?”

  “No, Doctor Franklin,” Matt said wearily, “but I’d like to talk to you for a moment if you can spare the time.”

  “Come in, come in. I’m just grading some papers.” Franklin grimaced. “Freshman papers. There always are freshman papers.”

  Franklin led the way into his book-cluttered study off the living room. His glasses were resting on top of a pile of papers. He picked up his glasses, slipped them on, and turned to Matt. He was a tall man, a little stooped now in his sixties, with gray, unruly hair.

  “Matt!” he exclaimed. “You aren’t looking well. Have you been sick?”

  “In a way,” Matt said. “You could call it that. The question is: What is the cure? How would you treat someone who believes in the reality of psychic phenomena?”

  Franklin shrugged. “Lots of people believe in it and are still worthwhile, reliable members of society. Conan Doyle, for instance — ”

  “And could prove it,” Matt added.

  “Hallucinations? Then it becomes more serious. I suppose psychiatric treatment would be necessary. Remember, Matt, I’m a teacher, not a practitioner. But you aren’t suggesting that — ?”

  Matt nodded. “I can prove it, and I don’t want to. Would it make the world any better, any happier?”

  “The truth is always important — for itself if for nothing else. But you can’t be serious — ”

  “Dead serious.” Matt shivered. “Suppose I could prove that there were actually such things as levitation, teleportation, telepathy. There isn’t any treatment, is there, when a man goes sane?”

  “Matt! You are sick, aren’t you?”

  “Suppose,” Matt went on relentlessly, “that your glasses should float over and come to rest on my nose. What would you say then?”

  “I’d say you need to see a psychiatrist,” Franklin said worriedly. “You do, Matt.”

  His glasses gently detached themselves and floated leisurely through the air and adjusted themselves on Matt’s face. Franklin stared blindly.

  “Matt!” he exclaimed, groping. “That isn’t very funny.”

  Matt sighed and handed the glasses back. Franklin put them back on, frowning.

  “Suppose,” Matt said, “I should float in the air?” As he spoke, he felt himself lifting.

  Franklin looked up. “Come down here!”

  Matt came back into his chair.

  “These tricks,” Franklin said sternly, “aren’t very seemly. Go to a doctor, Matt. Don’t waste any time. And,” he added, taking off his glasses and polishing them vigorously, “I think I’ll see my optometrist in the morning.”

  Matt sighed again. “I was afraid that was the way it would be. Abbie?”

  Franklin stared.

  “Yes, Mr. Wright.” The words, soft and gentle, came out of midair.

  Franklin’s eyes searched the room frantically.

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  “Leave this house!” Franklin said, his voice trembling. “I’ve had enough of these pranks!”

  Matt got up and went to the front door. “I’m afra
id Doctor Franklin doesn’t believe in you. But I do. Good-by, Doctor Franklin. I don’t think a doctor would cure what I’ve got.”

  When he left, Franklin was searching the living room.

  There was something strangely final about the drive through the campus. Along Jayhawk Boulevard on top of Mount Oread, overlooking the Kaw Valley on the north and the Wakarusa on the south, the university buildings stood dark and deserted. Only the Student Union was lighted and the library and an occasional bulletin board. The long arms of the administration building were gloomy, and the night surrounded the white arches of Budig Hall.

  He pulled into the parking area behind the apartment buildings and got out and walked slowly to the entrance. He hoped that Guy wouldn’t be in. It was unlikely. The apartment was dark, and Guy was no sleeper.

  Matt opened the door. The apartment was empty. He turned on a living-room lamp. The room was in typical disarray. A sweater on the davenport, books in the chair.

  In the dark, Matt went to the kitchen. He bumped into the stove and swore, and rubbed his hip. Mary had a little lamb Somewhere around here …

  Some hidden reserve kept Matt from dropping where he stood. He should have collapsed from exhaustion and hunger long ago. But soon there would be time to rest and everywhere that Mary went He stooped. There it was. The sugar. The sugar. He had always liked blue sugar.

  He found a package of cereal and got the milk from the refrigerator. He took a sharp knife from the drawer and sliced the box in two. He dumped the contents into a bowl and poured the milk over it and sprinkled the sugar on top. The blue sugar with fleece as white as snow He was very sleepy.

  He lifted a spoonful of the cereal to his mouth. He chewed it for a moment. He swallowed …

  And it was gone.

  He grabbed the knife and plunged it toward his chest.

  And his hand was empty.

  He was very sleepy. His head drooped. Suddenly it straightened up. The hissing had stopped. A long time ago. He turned on the light and saw that the burner was turned off, the one that never lighted from the pilot, the one he had stumbled against.