“Was it something you saw?”
“Only at the end,” he said. He said something else but I couldn’t understand it. When I pressed, he shook his head, and pressed his lips together for emphasis as he did it. Then he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Must have imagined it. But I could swear in those last days when Julien was so sick, that the thing was there, definitely there. It was in Julien’s room, it was in the bed with him.”
He looked up at me to gauge my reaction. His mouth turned down at the ends and he was scowling, his eyes glaring up at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
“Awful, awful thing,” he whispered, shaking his head. He shivered. “Did you see it?”
He looked away. I asked him several more questions, but I knew I had lost him. When he answered again, I caught something about the others knowing about that thing, knowing and pretending they didn’t.
Then he looked up at me again and he said, “They didn’t want me to know that they knew. They all knew. I told Julien, ‘There’s somebody else in this house, and you know it, and you know what it likes, and what it wants, and you won’t tell me you know,’ and he said, ‘Come now, Richard,’ and he’d use all his … persuasion, so to speak, to you know, make me forget about it. And then that last week, that awful last week, it was there, in that bed. I know it was. I woke up in the chair and I saw it. I did. I saw it. It was the ghost of a man, and it was making love to Julien. Oh, God, what a sight. Because you see, I knew it wasn’t real. Wasn’t real at all. Couldn’t be. And yet I could see it.”
He looked away, the tremor in his mouth worsening. He tried to take out his pocket handkerchief but was merely fumbling with it. I did not know whether or not I should help him.
I asked more questions as gently as I could. He either didn’t hear me or didn’t care to answer. He sat slumped in the chair, looking as if he might die of old age at any moment.
Then he shook his head and said he couldn’t talk anymore. He did seem quite exhausted. He said he didn’t stay in the shop all day anymore and he would soon be going upstairs. I thanked him profusely for the pictures, and he murmured that yes, he was glad I’d come, he’d been waiting for me to give me those pictures.
I never saw Richard Llewellyn again. He died about five months after our last interview, in early 1959. He was buried in the Lafayette Cemetery not far from Julien.
There are many other stories which could be included here about Julien. There is much more that might be discovered.
It is sufficient for the purposes of this narrative to add nothing more at this point except that Julien had one other male companion of whom we know, a man to whom he was very strongly attached, and this was the man already described in this narrative as Judge Daniel McIntyre, who later married Mary Beth Mayfair.
But we can discuss Daniel McIntyre in connection with Mary Beth. Therefore it is appropriate to move on now to Mary Beth herself, the last great nineteenth-century Mayfair Witch, and the only female Mayfair Witch of the nineteenth century to rival her eighteenth-century forebears in power.
It was ten minutes past two. Michael stopped only because he had to stop. His eyes were closing, and there was nothing to do but give in and sleep for a while.
He sat still for a long moment, staring at the folder, which he had just closed. He was startled by the knock on the door.
“Come in,” he said.
Aaron entered quietly. He was dressed in his pajamas and a quilted silk robe, sashed at the waist. “You look tired,” he said. “You should go to bed now.”
“I have to,” Michael said. “When I was young, I could just keep swilling the coffee. But it’s not like that anymore. My eyes are shutting down on me.” He sat back in the leather chair, fished in his pocket for a cigarette, and lighted it. The need to sleep was suddenly so heavy, he closed his eyes and almost let the cigarette slip from his fingers. Mary Beth, he thought, have to get on to Mary Beth. So many questions …
Aaron settled into the wing chair in the corner. “Rowan canceled her midnight flight,” he said. “She’ll have a layover tomorrow, and won’t reach New Orleans before afternoon.”
“How do you find out things like that?” Michael asked sleepily. But that was the least of the questions on his mind. He took another lazy drag off the cigarette and stared at the plate of uneaten sandwiches before him. A sculpture now. He had not wanted any supper. “That’s good,” he said. “If I wake up at six, and read right on through, I’ll make it by evening.”
“And then we should talk,” Aaron said. “We should talk a great deal before you go to see her.”
“I know. Believe me, I know. Aaron, why the hell am I involved in this? Why? Why have I been seeing that man since I was a kid?” He took another drag off the cigarette. “Are you afraid of that spirit thing?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Aaron answered without the slightest hesitation.
Michael was surprised. “You believe all this then? And you yourself have seen him?”
Aaron nodded. “I have,” he said.
“Thank God. Every word of this story has a different meaning for us than it would for someone else who hasn’t seen! Someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to see an apparition like that.”
“I believed before I saw,” Aaron said. “My colleagues have seen him. They have reported what they’ve seen. And as a seasoned member of the Talamasca, I accepted the testimony.”
“Then you accept that this thing can kill people.”
Aaron reflected for a moment. “Look, I might as well tell you this now. And try to remember it. This thing can do harm, but it has a devil of a time doing it.” He smiled. “No pun intended there,” he said. “What I’m trying to say is, Lasher kills largely through trickery. He can certainly cause physical effects-move objects, cause tree limbs to fall, rocks to fly-that sort of thing. But he wields this power awkwardly and often sluggishly. Trickery and illusion are his strongest weapons.”
“He forced Petyr van Abel into a tomb,” Michael said.
“No, Petyr was found trapped in a tomb. What likely happened was that he went into it himself in a state of madness in which he could no longer distinguish illusion from reality.”
“But why would Petyr do that when he was terrified of … ”
“Oh, come now, Michael, men are often irresistibly drawn to the very thing they fear.”
Michael didn’t say anything. He drew on the cigarette again, seeing in his mind’s eye the surf crashing on the rocks off Ocean Beach. And remembering the moment of standing there, his scarf blowing in the wind, his fingers frozen.
“To put it bluntly,” Aaron said, “never overestimate this spirit. It’s weak. If it wasn’t it wouldn’t need the Mayfair family.”
Michael looked up. “Say that again.”
“If it wasn’t weak, it wouldn’t need the Mayfair family,” Aaron said. “It needs their energy. And when it attacks, it uses the victim’s energy.”
“You just reminded me of something I said to Rowan. When she asked whether or not these spirits I saw had caused me to fall from the rock into the ocean, I told her they couldn’t do something like that. They weren’t that strong. If they were strong enough to knock a man into the sea and cause him to drown, they wouldn’t need to come to people in visions. They wouldn’t need to give me a crucial mission.”
Aaron didn’t reply.
“You see my point?” Michael asked.
“Yes, I do. But I see the point of her question also.”
“She asked me why I assumed that they were good, these spirits. I was shocked by that. But she thought it was a logical question.”