Mrs. Rahlo's Closet and Other Mad Tales Page 2

  I told Mrs. Rahlo about my morning’s walk through the neighborhood, mentioning I thought it strange I hadn’t met with anyone.

  She smiled. “We keep to ourselves. Most of us are very old.”

  “Do you go much into town?” I asked.

  “I never go out, dear. I used to, a long time ago. But people were unkind.”

  “You were out this morning.”

  “No, dear. I was in the house somewhere.”

  “If you don’t go out, how do you shop?”

  “I have a friend—the one who made my television set. He brings me all I need.”

  “I’d like to meet him,” I said.

  Her eyes glowed. “I’m sure you will, my dear.”

  After dinner we moved to the parlor and drank more of her red wine. The television was gone; she said she sent it away to have it repaired.

  She told me many more things, about the old days and the way the old-fashioned people would dance in the streets. My throat was dry, so I helped myself to more of the delicious wine, as she talked on and on.

  I interrupted once to tell about the creature I saw beneath the house. She said all sorts of things crawled up the sewer channels, which ran down to the sea. She promised to call in an exterminator.

  “I hope it didn’t frighten you, dear,” she added.

  “No, it surprised me. That’s all.”

  She told me she was frightened once, by stern and cruel old men.

  “How is that?” I asked.

  “When I was a girl. They tried to stop everyone from having pleasure. Ah, but where are they now?”

  “Things are different now,” I said. “These days nobody cares what anyone else does.” She grinned and nodded and told more stories.

  • • •

  The old woman’s stories blended with my dreams that night, along with the memories of my morning walk. Once more I threaded the overgrown pathways. Only now it was night, and the streets no longer empty. Dark things, masquerading as people, dragged themselves beneath the shrubbery. The scene changed. They were dancing now, pirouetting in a graveyard by a black church in a vast and empty field, a frenzied string, delirious, weaving in and out, laughing insanely, till the church exploded, except for one stone wall. Still they laughed; the night quivered with their laughter.

  I awoke. It was night. The house odor was very strong. The laughter continued. But no. It wasn’t laughter. It was a click—click—click from the locked closet—almost as though the door was opening and closing.

  The bedside lamp revealed all as it should be. Nonetheless, I made sure the closet door was locked. Yet I was uneasy for thinking the sound I heard was that infernal crab, dragging its claws behind the walls of my room. My thoughts reverted to the thing I imagined had jumped up on my bed. No, that was a dream. Crabs or anything else can’t disappear through locked doors. Still, I was glad that Mrs. Rahlo planned to call the pest exterminator.

  • • •

  I awoke refreshed but dimly troubled. I found a note in quaintly archaic handwriting tacked to my door.

  You see, I went out after all, it read. You’ll find your meals laid out in the dining room. I moved the sofa onto the veranda in case you feel like sitting outside.—Mrs. R.

  The morning was brilliant. After breakfast I went outdoors to lie upon the overstuffed sofa Mrs. Rahlo had provided and read up on my medical statistics. I wondered vaguely how she could have single-handedly moved such a massive piece of furniture. Then I remembered her friend. I read a chapter or so till I suddenly thought of the clothing the former tenant had left behind. I went upstairs.

  The clothespress occupied nearly half of one wall. The bottom drawer was crammed with personal belongings. What first engaged my attention was a fine blue woolen overcoat, seemingly new. It fit me perfectly. I could never have afforded a coat like that.

  I removed the coat, as the room was warm, and examined the rest of the drawer’s contents: trousers, socks, underclothing, shoes, suspenders, handkerchiefs, shaving equipment, and two parcels—one bulky, one small—both wrapped in brown paper and done up with string.

  The first and larger package proved to be books of folklore. The titles were curious: Witchcraft in Old and New England, by G. L. Kittredge; The Wonders of the Invisible World, by Cotton Mather; The Malleus Maleficarum of Kramer and Sprenger; Translunary Cults, by Larsen and Myers; Demonolatry by Remy.

  The second parcel contained a single calfskin volume considerably older than the other books. It was in manuscript and looked like a diary. I put the clothes and other objects back in the drawer and took the ancient volume downstairs to read on the veranda.

  I had no difficulty deciphering the spidery handwriting. On the flyleaf was written in faded brown ink: JOURNAL OF NATHANIEL BRADLEY/SOMETIME CUSTODIAN OF THE KING’S GAOL/1712. Beneath this, in modern hand, someone had added in pencil: STEPHEN WYCLIFF, BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

  Wycliff, the former tenant, was evidently a serious student, for entire pages as well as single passages were underscored and interlineated with marginal comments. I read these marked portions while seated on the veranda that sunny afternoon. When I’d read enough, I tucked the volume into my side pocket. I have it still. Here is what I read.

  Some twentie years since were these Colonies vex’d and annoyed by many damnable Witchcrafts. The Witches, it is sayd, worship’d a Black Man, whom they called the Divell. Whether this accurs’d Monster was Satan himself or merely one of his minions it is useless to speculate. Some would have it he was a mortall albeit very wicked man. Most curious of all, I have heard it whisper’d by the very Witches themselves, cag’d and awaiting the scaffold, that this Monster was neither Satan, imp, nor wicked man, but a ferocious Goblin from the Starrs.

  The next marked passage began three pages later:

  In exchange for the Divell’s promise of eternal life, each Witch doth pledge herself to him: eats his “flesh,” quaffs his “wine”—blasphemous mockery—and proffereth living human sacrifice—that the Dark Daemon may sate his hunger upon their Souls.

  So doth this evil, obscene Horror oblige his disciples with gifts, termed Familiars—Monstrousities in the shapes of common beasts—Toads, Hares, Crabbs, Catts, and the like—none seeing them clearly, they seeming to dissolve into air. The Divell teacheth the Witch to talk with the Familiar, who is the messenger betwixt them. When the Witch is away or at sleep, she sometimes putteth herself inside the Familiar, so shee can be ever watchful. I have heard that the Divell can spy when he is far away in Hell or in the Starrs, by means of an infernal Engine he giveth his witches, though none I spake with know much of this.

  I skipped over a few more pages to the next underlining.

  Some specially favour’d ones the Divell did forewarn of the trials to come. These witches he immured in coffins, standing up, and did conceal in secret places. But first did he pour lightning into the coffin, to serve the Witch as meat and drink for all the years that shee must sleep to await the Divell’s return. For with the Godly action of our Pious Magistrates the Divell was weak and did fly far away from New-England, promising he would return in times when men were less vigilant, though, such a time I pray may never be.

  All these things I learn’d while I was Custodian of the Gaol at Salem, Massachusetts, during the years 1690–1697.

  Thus ended the quotation. Curious reading indeed. I rose and paced the veranda for some minutes before returning to the overstuffed sofa. Throughout the following pages the markings extended only to a sentence or two, and I did not bother with them. But about two-thirds through the book I came upon another sizable section underscored with dark pencil.

  Some do connect the explosion of the Congregational Church with these same Witches, though many do judge the building unstable for having been erected upon an existing foundation of ancient heathen stonework. One Hallowmass Evening a curs’d chant bellowed from the empty Church. So fierce and loud was the noise that people all over Town heard and wonder’d, I being with a small party tha
t ventur’d to investigate. We were some goodly distance away when the entire building filled with fire and exploded with a roar that did send us sprawling to the Earth.

  The explosion was like no blast ever seen. Had the Church been charg’d with gun-powder, the wreakage surely had been strewn about. But the church exploded inwardly. All burst to rubble, save a wall of black stone, the ancient foundation, some said, upon which the builders did raise the Church.

  Ever after men avoided the site as accurs’d; though rumour had it that shortly after the destruction, in the depths of the Night there came to the Church-Yard a deputy of Parsons, Magistrates, and other godly men, who digg’d up the coffins of the dead corpses to lay them anew in consecrated ground, and then with mighty Hammers did break the head-stones and other monuments so that none could know the land once was hallowed. I have visited this site but newly and find all covered by long grasses.

  The narrative sent me back to my terrible dream. I had dreamed of an exploding church and a black wall. For a moment I lived the horrid sensation of being caught up in some ancient evil. But in warm sunlight how easy it is to dismiss such freakish correlations.

  I caught myself yawning. Being out so long in the sun had made me drowsy. Nevertheless, I roused myself to read one more short passage.

  “That the Divell’s especial favour should be known, he has shapen their faces to swell with long Eies.” Written in the margin, strongly embossed with pencil, were two words: “Mrs. Rahlo.”

  Despite the warm day a shiver crawled up my back. Mrs. Rahlo? Yes, I could see it—in the seventeenth century, an era intensely aware of evil. A physical peculiarity, a cleft palate or an oversize wart—or a pair of bulging eyes—doomed an old woman to red torture. Puritan minds moved close to hell. The magistrates—those iron-willed, self-righteous old men—they were the real purveyors of evil; it couldn’t be otherwise. To take their words seriously made life a mindless horror, defenseless before inconceivable malignancy. Modern people must not believe in witches. No wonder Wycliff never sent for his belongings. He was probably dead or in an insane asylum.

  I pocketed the journal and stretched out on the sofa. The afternoon sun felt pleasantly warm. My mind drifted to my father’s house in California, where I was surrounded by kind, familiar faces.

  • • •

  I awoke shrieking in the sunlight. I had had a hideous dream about witches embalmed with electricity, standing whitefaced, with open goggle eyes, in long rows of vertical coffins.

  It took me some moments to recover. The dream fading, I looked about me. It was late afternoon. Had Mrs. Rahlo returned and failed to wake me? Surely she must have returned by now. It must be near dinnertime, for I was hungry. I went into the house to look for her.

  The dark house seemed cold as I stepped inside; a momentary flash of those hellish white dream faces made me shudder. Then I reminded myself of the pathetic delusion of the last tenant. I wondered where Mrs. Rahlo was.

  This was my third day in the crumbling old mansion, and I was familiar only with my rooms on the second story and with the front room, parlor, and dining room on the first. A quick inspection showed me that my hostess was in none of these. If she had returned, where was she?

  “Mrs. Rahlo,” I called. “Mrs. Rahlo?”

  I was oddly timid of shouting, uncomfortably aware of my voice dimly vibrating in dark rooms. Nevertheless, I had a notion that I would find Mrs. Rahlo in her chambers, wherever they might be. So I determined to explore the house. There would be basements and cellars, not to mention nests of attics, but Mrs. Rahlo’s rooms would undoubtedly be in the main part.

  I proceeded to examine the ground floor. Empty rooms, dozens of them, ruined and filthy. Empty closets. Not a scrap of furniture, save the two seats in the parlor and the table and chairs in the dining room. The kitchen, too, was empty. No refrigerator, not even an icebox. No oven or stove, merely a wrecked counter and a massive fireplace choked with weeds and rubbish. I saw that she had used a spirit lamp to prepare my food. But there was no evidence of food at all, just mounds of dried weeds piled high in the corners.

  Only the entrance hall, parlor, and dining room had been swept clean and scantily furnished. The rest was bare, carpeted with dust, reeking with mildew. Many of the rooms to the rear were wholly ruinous, the walls caved in, floors taken up or rotted away. One I could not enter for a fallen ceiling.

  I ascended the stairs to the second floor. Knocking on doors, I called my hostess’s name. No answer. Only my own voice echoing down disused corridors—all the rooms bare, all open and empty, some deformed by frayed shrouds of wallpaper—others gutted, exposing an eerie skeleton of raw, splintered framework. Over all there was dust.

  I found the dry rot even more pronounced on the third floor. I could not easily advance to the fourth, for the staircase at a certain point became blocked by a mound of rubble and collapsed timbers. I thought for a moment of trying to climb over the obstruction but stopped when I saw the two hellishly glowing pinpricks of jeweled light. That hideous crab squatted atop the mound on the rotting stairway, its fierce pincers opening and closing. I gave a cry and raced back to the landing.

  I decided then that either Mrs. Rahlo called in the exterminator immediately, or I would leave the house, regardless of the cheap rent. I retreated to my bedroom and stood staring out the window in the late-afternoon sunlight, waiting for Mrs. Rahlo.

  I heard a doorknob twist and then rattle. I swept round. It was the closet door. Was someone locked inside? I grasped the knob and tried to wrench the door open. It was still locked. I knew then that I badly wanted to open that door, had wanted to do so for some time. Beyond that door lay some mystery, and I must have a look. I reached for my keys and tried first one then another. The keys proved useless. Almost feverishly, I tried to slip the bolt with the blade of my pocketknife. Inserting the blade between door and jamb, I began to maneuver the knife.

  “You promised you wouldn’t do that, dear.” Mrs. Rahlo stood directly behind me.

  • • •

  We ate a cold vegetable supper and drank of the red wine. Far from being upset with me for having tried the closet door, Mrs. Rahlo fluttered with solicitude. I had never seen her so animated.

  “I was thinking,” she said, her voice suffused with excitement, “we’ll have a full moon tonight. Maybe you’ll want a turn in the garden. It is neglected now, but there are still some nice walks and a very pretty fountain.”

  “A fountain? I didn’t notice it on my walk yesterday.”

  “You didn’t go far enough,” she replied.

  We drank more wine. I told her of searching the house as far as the third floor. Her rooms lay on the fourth floor, she said, accessible by a back staircase. She started when I mentioned the crab and vowed to call in an exterminator the next morning. She laughed then, as though she had made a good joke.

  The summer day continued far into the night, for the retreating sun left behind a resplendently bright moon. After dinner, still sipping the sweet wine, we moved to the veranda. I talked more about my previous day’s adventures among the streets and about the hill I never could get to.

  She brightened. “We call it Bigmound. You can get there if you climb the wall at the end of my garden.” She poured more wine.

  “I’d like that,” I exclaimed, “—to see the hill by moonlight.” I knew I should drink no more wine, but I could not help myself.

  “But, my dear, you shall. Perhaps you will meet my friend, who comes there sometimes. It is only a few feet from the wall you are going to climb. Go into the back garden and find the main path; it starts at the fountain that used to splash blood.”

  “Blood?”

  “Oh dear, it must be the wine; it looks like blood, doesn’t it? No, I meant water; the fountain used to splash water until they took it up and cracked the pipe.”

  “Somebody ‘took up’ the fountain?”

  “Oh, no. No. My garden I mean. Somebody tore up my garden, dear. Here,” she said, filling m
y glass, “take some wine with you. If you should meet my friend, greet him for me. Find the fountain and take the path; climb the wall and see the mound!”

  Yes, precisely the thing to do. I must see the mound; I had to. The moon was shatteringly bright. Clutching the glass, I made my way to the rear of the house and entered the weeds. As I staggered on, I thought I heard a cry from the veranda. Was Mrs. Rahlo weeping? Could she be laughing?

  My body throbbed with motion as I thrashed through those eye-high weeds, wading farther into those fields than I had the day before. I had not realized the vastness. Where was the fountain path? Once I came to a bare brown hill. All about me shone a crazy patchwork of moonlit blotches interspersed with black ruts. It is bad art, I thought—the hills too silver bright, the hollows too black. Then, for a moment, I wondered what I was doing, running and sweating in the moon-haunted fields, a wineglass in my hand.

  The path, a voice told me, your path lies just ahead. Find the fountain. Odd bits of masonry littered the ground, but I could not stop to investigate. I had to find the fountain. Just ahead.

  I lost my footing and came crashing down among the weeds and broken masonry. I gained my feet, took a turn, and found the fountain.

  How like a tomb it was in the blinding moonlight. Tall and white it stood, surmounted by a stone cherub; but time had cracked the cherub’s face. Cracked, too, was the fountain’s wide rim. Empty, dry and cracked. The blazing whiteness burned my eyes. I licked the dregs out of the wineglass, which I found I was still clutching, and set the glass delicately on the rim of the fountain. The cherub smirked now like a devil. I turned to the path that lay just past the fountain.

  The mound. To the mound! I raced down that bright moon-silvered path, dense weed walls on both sides. Abruptly the path gave way to an open place; there before me was the wall. The wall I must climb to see the mound. That worn black wall, it was only a few feet high. I could scale it easily—then on to the mound, where something colossal waited for me.