'Entry into the region of the dead is by succession…' The way Jane had said that, it was almost as if she had been reading from a book. 'You are always called by the relative who died immediately before you.' Those words reinforced my earlier opinion that the deaths that had been taking place in Granitehead were a summoning, the dead beckoning the living, a kind of séance in reverse, with tragic and often gruesome consequences.
At least I knew one thing now: that I myself was charmed and protected by my unborn son. Perhaps not against the full strength of the force which lay within the David Dark, but certainly against Jane.
I felt bitter, as I drove; bitter and tired. I also had a terrible sense of impotence and defeat, as if nothing that I was able to do would help to put Jane to rest. Knowing that her spirit was trapped in that hideous limbo with all those rotting and skeletal apparitions was far worse than knowing that she was dead. The pain was greater, the feeling of loss which I was already suffering was heightened by a feeling of helplessness and despair.
I played Brahms on the car's tape deck to calm me down, and talked with Edward and Forrest about Gilly McCormick, and music, and the David Dark, and Gilly McCormick.
'Is she stuck on you?' asked Edward, as we drove into the outskirts of Burlington.
'Gilly, you mean?'
'Who else?'
'I don't know,' I told him. 'I suppose we do share a certain vague rapport.'
'You hear that?' said Forrest. 'A certain vague rapport. That's educated talk for "we're just good friends".'
Edward took off his spectacles and polished them with a crumpled-up Kleenex. 'I have to admire your speed, John. When you want something, you certainly go straight in there and get it.'
'She's an attractive girl,' I replied.
'Well, sure she is,' said Edward, and I thought I detected a hint of jealousy in his voice.
Forrest, leaning forward in the back seat, gripped Edward affably on the shoulder. 'Don't you worry about Edward,' he said. 'Edward's been in love with Gilly McCormick ever since he first set eyes on her.'
We took a right at Burlington, turning off 95 and heading north-west on 93. The car splashed through sheets of puddles, and sloughed through roadside floods. The windshield wipers kept up a steady, rubbery protest and raindrops hovered on the side windows like persistent memories that refused to let go.
Edward said, 'Do you know that Brahms used to play piano in dancehalls and dockside saloons?'
Forrest said, 'That's nothing. Prokofiev used to cook sukiyaki.'
'What the hell does that have to do with Brahms playing in dance-halls?' Edward demanded.
'For Christ's sake, you two,' I put in. 'I don't think I'm quite in the mood for arcane academic arguments.'
They both fell silent as we drove through the rain towards Dracut County. Then Edward said, 'Is that true? About the sukiyaki I mean?'
'Sure,' said Forrest. 'He learned how to cook it when he went to Japan. He never liked sushi, though. It made him compose in key.'
We reached Tewksbury five or ten minutes after noon. It was only a small community, and Edward was quite sure that he could remember where the Evelith house was, but all the same we spent another ten minutes driving around and around the green, looking for the front gates. An elderly man was standing by the side of the green in a full-length waterproof cape and a fisherman's sou'wester, and he watched us gravely as we passed him for the third time.
I pulled in to the side of the road. 'Pardon me, sir. Can you direct me to a house called Billington?'
The elderly man came forward, and stared into the car like a country policeman who suspected us of being beatniks, or radicals, or big-city insurance salesmen.
The Evelith place? That what you want?'
'That's right, sir. We have an appointment to see Mr Duglass Evelith at twelve o'clock.'
The elderly man reached under his raincape and produced a pocket-watch. He opened the case and peered at it through the lower half of his bifocals. 'In that case, you're going to be late. It's thirteen minutes after.'
'Could you just direct us, please?' asked Edward.
'Well, it's easy enough,' said the elderly man. 'Follow this road around to the other side of the green, then take a left by that maple.'
Thank you,' I told him.
'Don't thank me,' the elderly man said. 'I wouldn't go in there if you paid me.'
'The Evelith place? Why not?'
'That place is bad fortune, that's what that place is. Bad fortune, and ill luck; and if I had my way I'd see it burned down to the cellars.'
'Oh, come on, now,' said Edward. He was obviously trying to coax the old man to tell us more. 'Mr Evelith's a recluse, that's all. That doesn't mean to say that there's anything spooky about his house.'
'Spooky, you call it? Well, let me tell you something, son, if you want to see anything spooky, you ought to go past the Evelith place one summer night, that's what you ought to do. And if you don't hear the weirdest noises you ever b6ard, groanings and roarings and suchlike, and if you don't see the most peculiar lights dancing around on the rooftops, then you can come back to me and I'll give you dinner, free of charge, and your fare back to wherever it is that you come from.'
'Salem,' said Forrest.
'Salem, hey?' asked the elderly man. 'Well, if you're Salem folks, you'll know what kind of thing it is that I'm talking about.'
'Groanings and roarings?' asked Edward.
'Groanings and roarings,' the elderly man affirmed, without explaining any more.
Edward looked at me and I looked back at Edward. 'Everybody still game, I hope?' I asked. Edward said, 'Sure. Forrest?' And Forrest replied, 'I'm game. What's a little groaning and roaring?' Edward said, 'You forgot the peculiar lights.'
We thanked the elderly man, put up the car windows again, and drove around the green. Past the spreading maple tree, almost hidden by creepers and unkempt bushes, we found the high wrought-iron gates of Billing-ton, the house in which the Evelith family had lived since 1763. Edward said, There it is. I don't know how I could have forgotten where it was. I could have sworn it was further along the green the last time I came here.'
'Spookier and spookier,' grinned Forrest.
I stopped the car outside the gates and climbed out. Beyond the gates, there was a wide gravel driveway, and then a fine white 18th-century mansion, with a pillared doorway, green-painted shutters, and a gray-shingled mansard roof with three dormer windows. Most of the shutters on the first floor were closed, and I wasn't particularly gratified to see a brindled Doberman standing not far away from the steps which led up to the front door, watching me closely with its ears pricked up.
The bell-pull's over here,' said Edward, and tugged at a black iron handle which protruded from one of the gateposts. We heard a very faint jangling sound inside the house, and the Doberman trotted a little way towards the gates, and then stopped again, and stared at us ferociously.
'Are you good with dogs?' Edward asked me.
'I'm wonderful with dogs,' I assured him. 'I just lie there and cower and let them devour me. Nobody has ever complained to the American Kennel Club about the way I've treated dogs.'
Edward glanced at me acutely. 'Something on your mind?' he asked me.
'Does it show?'
'If you're not making flippant remarks, you're totally silent. Did you see your wife again last night?'