all over me like lice. I groped
for, and found, the book of angels which lay on my bedside table; and I also
picked up, out of plain old-fashioned superstitious terror, the ring of hair
which Eloise had given me for protection against devils and demons.
I raised the book of angels and said tightly: ‘I command you
to go away. If you don’t go away, I’ll invoke an angel to drive you away. No
matter how dangerous it is, I’ll do it.’
The voice chuckled. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking
about. Invoke an angel! How can you possibly believe in
angels?’’
‘The same way I’m beginning to believe in devils.’
‘You think I’m a devil? Well, I’ll prove you wrong! Just
open the door and I’ll show you.’
I kept the book held high. ‘I’m not going to. If you want to
talk, talk in the morning. But right now I want you to go. I don’t care if
you’re Father Anton or not. Just go...’
There was a long, dull silence. Then I heard a clicking
noise. I couldn’t think what it was to begin with, but then I looked again at
the door and saw, to my utmost dread, that the key was slowly revolving in the
lock. One by one, the lock levers opened; and then the brass bolt at the top of
the door slid back as if it was being tugged by a magnet.
My throat constricted. I hefted the candlestick and raised
it behind me to hit whatever was out there as hard as I possibly could.
The doorknob turned. The door opened, and that soft sour draught
began to course through my bedroom again. Then, untouched, the door swung wide
by itself.
Outside, in the corridor, it was totally dark. The house
stirred and shifted. I waited and waited, my candlestick raised over my head,
but nothing happened. Nobody appeared. Nobody spoke.
I said, ‘Are you there?’
There was no reply. I swallowed, and my swallow seemed like
the loudest sound in the world.
I took one step forward towards the doorway. Maybe it was
waiting for me to come after it. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t disappoint it. After
all, a demon was only a demon, wasn’t it? It was only some croaky voice in the
night. Only some whisper in a derelict tank. Nothing more than a scattered heap
of bones that Father Anton had sealed in his cellar.
I reached the doorway. The best thing to do would be to jump
right out across the corridor. Then, if anything was hiding beside the door,
ready to claw out at me, I could turn round and hit it first.
I said, loudly and unsteadily, ‘Arc you there? Answer me! If you’re so damned smart, answer!’
There was nothing. It was so quiet in that moment that I
could hear my watch ticking on the bedside table. I cleared my throat.
I tensed the candlestick in my hand, crouched down a little,
and then I threw myself out of the open doorway, across the painted boards of
the corridor, and scrambled around so that I was ready with my arm raised and
my muscles tightened for action.
There was nothing. The corridor was empty. I felt a shiver
that was both fear and relief, intermingled.
Perhaps the best thing to do now would be to go down and
check that Father Anton was all right. After all, that whispery voice had
claimed to be him, and if it was opening doors all over the house, it could
have opened his, too. I pulled up my bedsocks , which
were falling down round my ankles, and walked back along the dark corridor as
far as the head of the stairs. On the landing below, an old French wall clock
was tiredly counting away the small cold hours of the night, and a cardinal
with a face about as happy as a hundred-year-old horse was looking gloomily out
of an ancient oil painting.
I started to go down the stairs. My nightshirt made a soft
sweeping sound on the boards, and I paused once to listen for any unusual
noises. The wall clock suddenly whirred and struck the half hour, and I froze.
But when the chimes had died away, there was silence again. I walked across the
landing, and headed down the corridor where Father Anton’s bedroom was.
It was
for, and found, the book of angels which lay on my bedside table; and I also
picked up, out of plain old-fashioned superstitious terror, the ring of hair
which Eloise had given me for protection against devils and demons.
I raised the book of angels and said tightly: ‘I command you
to go away. If you don’t go away, I’ll invoke an angel to drive you away. No
matter how dangerous it is, I’ll do it.’
The voice chuckled. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking
about. Invoke an angel! How can you possibly believe in
angels?’’
‘The same way I’m beginning to believe in devils.’
‘You think I’m a devil? Well, I’ll prove you wrong! Just
open the door and I’ll show you.’
I kept the book held high. ‘I’m not going to. If you want to
talk, talk in the morning. But right now I want you to go. I don’t care if
you’re Father Anton or not. Just go...’
There was a long, dull silence. Then I heard a clicking
noise. I couldn’t think what it was to begin with, but then I looked again at
the door and saw, to my utmost dread, that the key was slowly revolving in the
lock. One by one, the lock levers opened; and then the brass bolt at the top of
the door slid back as if it was being tugged by a magnet.
My throat constricted. I hefted the candlestick and raised
it behind me to hit whatever was out there as hard as I possibly could.
The doorknob turned. The door opened, and that soft sour draught
began to course through my bedroom again. Then, untouched, the door swung wide
by itself.
Outside, in the corridor, it was totally dark. The house
stirred and shifted. I waited and waited, my candlestick raised over my head,
but nothing happened. Nobody appeared. Nobody spoke.
I said, ‘Are you there?’
There was no reply. I swallowed, and my swallow seemed like
the loudest sound in the world.
I took one step forward towards the doorway. Maybe it was
waiting for me to come after it. Well, perhaps I shouldn’t disappoint it. After
all, a demon was only a demon, wasn’t it? It was only some croaky voice in the
night. Only some whisper in a derelict tank. Nothing more than a scattered heap
of bones that Father Anton had sealed in his cellar.
I reached the doorway. The best thing to do would be to jump
right out across the corridor. Then, if anything was hiding beside the door,
ready to claw out at me, I could turn round and hit it first.
I said, loudly and unsteadily, ‘Arc you there? Answer me! If you’re so damned smart, answer!’
There was nothing. It was so quiet in that moment that I
could hear my watch ticking on the bedside table. I cleared my throat.
I tensed the candlestick in my hand, crouched down a little,
and then I threw myself out of the open doorway, across the painted boards of
the corridor, and scrambled around so that I was ready with my arm raised and
my muscles tightened for action.
There was nothing. The corridor was empty. I felt a shiver
that was both fear and relief, intermingled.
Perhaps the best thing to do now would be to go down and
check that Father Anton was all right. After all, that whispery voice had
claimed to be him, and if it was opening doors all over the house, it could
have opened his, too. I pulled up my bedsocks , which
were falling down round my ankles, and walked back along the dark corridor as
far as the head of the stairs. On the landing below, an old French wall clock
was tiredly counting away the small cold hours of the night, and a cardinal
with a face about as happy as a hundred-year-old horse was looking gloomily out
of an ancient oil painting.
I started to go down the stairs. My nightshirt made a soft
sweeping sound on the boards, and I paused once to listen for any unusual
noises. The wall clock suddenly whirred and struck the half hour, and I froze.
But when the chimes had died away, there was silence again. I walked across the
landing, and headed down the corridor where Father Anton’s bedroom was.
It was
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