The Dark on the Other Side Read online

Galen’s lips tightened. He showed no other reaction; but after a moment Michael flushed and turned away.

  “I have not refused to concern myself,” Galen said quietly. “What I’m trying to do is make this a joint project.”

  “I’m sorry,” Michael muttered. “You’re right; the long-range effects aren’t important now. The main thing is to get Linda free of him. At the risk of sounding simpleminded, I suggest one of the quick divorce mills.”

  “What’s happened to your brain?” Galen asked nastily. “You can’t treat this as an ordinary case of mental cruelty. Randolph is not an ordinary man.”

  “He doesn’t own the whole goddamned world.”

  “He owns her.” Galen’s head jerked in Linda’s direction. Illogically, it was at that moment, with the impact of his brutal statement still aching, that Linda decided to trust him.

  “He’s right,” she said to Michael. “Call it what you like-obsession, neurosis, whatever. He does own me.” She turned to the psychiatrist. “You’ve been very persuasive, Doctor. But I don’t believe any of it. Gordon isn’t an ordinary man, you’re right. He’s not a man at all, not any longer.”

  Galen leaned back in his chair.

  “At last,” he said, with a sigh. “I thought I spotted something… What do you think he is? Demon, disciple of Satan, werewolf…Ah. The dog.”

  In Michael’s hurried, incoherent account, this theory had somehow escaped mention-probably because he rejected it himself. Linda knew there was no use trying to avoid it. Squaring her shoulders, she looked Galen straight in the eye.

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s what I think he is.”

  “Hmph.” Galen rocked back and forth. “Why?”

  “If you don’t stop saying that-” Michael began.

  “Shut up. I’m investigating Linda’s crazy ideas, not yours. Lycanthropy…You are not referring, I’m sure, to the mental aberration which involves cannibalism, necrophilia, sadism, and a craving for raw meat, among other symptoms?”

  “Is there such a thing?” Linda asked incredulously.

  “As a form of psychotic paranoia, sometimes called zoanthropy, there certainly is such a thing. It is comparatively rare, but well documented; some of the famous mass murderers of history probably suffered from a form of this complaint-Gilles de Rais, Jack the Ripper…

  “But that’s not what you mean. You are referring to the belief that some human beings can transform themselves into animal form, through the application of various magical techniques. The werewolf is the most familiar to us, because it is a product of European mythology and is described by the classical authors. In the East, however, one encounters were-tigers, and in Africa the supernatural beast may be a hyena or a leopard. The leopard societies of West Africa, which terrorized whole villages, are well known; there was a strong element of such a cult in the Mau Mau atrocities, in Kenya. The mutilations inflicted on the victims of these societies resemble those made by the claws of a predatory animal, and were done with artificial instruments designed to resemble claws.

  “Of course it’s impossible to separate the supernatural and pathological elements. A culture with an implicit faith in lycanthropy produces men who are susceptible to the mania, and an individual who found it impossible to attain prestige by normal methods might well turn to lycanthropy as a means of intimidating those he cannot otherwise control.”

  “Good God,” Michael muttered.

  “There is, as well, a connection between lycanthropy and witchcraft,” Galen went on calmly. “The tradition of supernatural animals is widespread and very ancient. The ability of a witch or warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers granted by Satan to his disciples. Often witches made their way to the Sabbath meeting in animal form. The great black goat was a manifestation of Lucifer. Black is, of course, the color of evil. And the black dog is not unknown as a supernatural animal, sometimes representing the warlock and sometimes Satan himself. The wild dog or wolf like beast is a symbol of the bestial qualities of the human mind, freed from the bonds of reason and conscience.”

  “A vile slander on animals,” Michael said.

  Galen went on, without appearing to hear him.

  “You see, I am sure, how the various traditions mingle-pre-Christian superstitions, perversions of Christian theology, and a variety of mental aberrations, ranging from paranoia to autohypnosis and hallucination. But the elements of the classic Western werewolf legend are explicit. Some werewolves, as in the popular films, are helpless victims of a curse, involuntary skin-turners. Most are not innocent; they seek the change by diabolical means and use their animal form to satisfy bestial desires. According to these accounts, it is the soul, or astral body, of the man that takes the animal form. The real body lies in a cataleptic coma, barely breathing; but the astral form is actual, physical, in that it can inflict pain and death, and feel pain and death. Any wound inflicted on the animal is reproduced on the sleeping human body, and drawing the animal’s blood forces it to resume human shape. In some traditions, the beast can only be killed by a silver bullet, or by a sword which has been blessed by a priest. When death occurs, the body of the beast disappears and the body of the lycanthrope is found with the same wounds that killed the animal. Intelligent observers have already suspected the werewolf’s human identity because of such signs as hairy palms and eyebrows that meet in the middle. He is often strangely affected by the full moon. Has Gordon any of these traits, Mrs. Randolph?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Linda said disgustedly. “Those are old wives’ tales.”

  Meeting Galen’s gently ironic eye, she began to laugh, helplessly.

  “Oh, dear…that’s probably the craziest thing I’ve said yet. Maybe I’m not as far gone as I thought I was. No, I think Gordon belongs to your second category. How was it you phrased it? ‘The ability of a warlock to assume animal form was one of the powers granted by Satan to his disciples.’”

  “It makes sense,” Galen said. “Given his past history, his dabbling in demonology as a young man, and his desire for control over others.”

  Linda’s insane desire to laugh broke out again at the sight of Michael’s stupefied expression.

  “Wait a minute,” he gasped. “First you said…And now you’re saying…”

  “You seem to be degenerating,” Galen snapped. “I’m not telling you what I believe. I am endeavoring to ascertain what Randolph himself believes.”

  “I think he believes it,” Linda said stubbornly. “What I just said.”

  “I don’t know,” Michael said.

  Galen rose. He seemed taller; from where Linda sat, on a low chair by the desk, he seemed to tower over her.

  “Maybe we’d better ask him,” he said.

  For the last few minutes, Linda had been partially aware of background noises, but in the immediacy of the conversation she had paid little attention. Now the meaning of the muffled sounds came home to her-a doorbell ringing, footsteps down the stairs and along the hall, the rattle of locks, and the opening and closing of the door. She sprang to her feet. The footsteps were coming down the hall, toward the study. Footsteps she knew. Gordon’s steps.

  II

  She was on her feet, halfway to the window in a mindless flight, when Galen’s hand caught her arm. His grip was as hard as steel.

  “I’m sorry, I meant to warn you,” he said; the even voice contrasted alarmingly with the intensity of the hard hand on her wrist. “He came more promptly than I expected. Trust me, Linda. This has to be done.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Michael.

  “Just keep quiet,” he said rapidly. “Don’t look surprised, at whatever I say, and don’t contradict me or volunteer anything. If you weren’t half-witted tonight, I wouldn’t have to tell you-”

  There was no time for further speech. The door of the study opened. Linda had a glimpse of the impassive manservant who had admitted them to the house; behind him was Gordon.

  Without meaning to move, Linda managed to g
et behind Galen. He had released his grip on her arm. There was no need for further constraint, and he must have known it. She was as incapable of movement as she was of speech.

  Gordon’s fine dark eyes moved slowly over the three faces confronting him.

  “My poor little errant wife,” he said, “and-friend. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, Dr. Rosenberg, but of course your reputation is well known. It was good of you to call me.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Randolph,” Galen said equably. He did not, Linda noticed, offer the other man his hand.

  Gordon took the chair indicated. He seemed perfectly at ease, except for the weariness in his face-normal in a man who has been trying to track down an insane wife.

  Carefully, he did not look at Linda. He was acting again, and doing it well, simulating wary concern, pretending he didn’t want to frighten her… He looked at Michael instead, and a pathetic shadow of his old charming smile touched his mouth.

  “Sorry, Mike. I’ve been a little off my head the last few days, or I wouldn’t have thought-what I’ve been thinking. And all the time you were planning this. I’m eternally in your debt.”

  It was a little obvious, even for Gordon. Linda knew quite well what he was doing, but being able to analyze his methods did not make her immune. Huddled on the low hassock where Galen’s ruthless arm had deposited her, she fought a doubt she had thought long conquered-doubt of Michael, and of the doctor to whom he had brought her.

  Michael said nothing. He was standing, as if he felt more secure on his feet. His wooden-faced silence did nothing to relieve Linda’s doubts.

  The silence deepened. Galen, who had seated himself behind his desk, picked up a pen and began scribbling with it. His eyes intent on the meaningless doodles with which he disfigured the pristine surface of the desk blotter, he was humming under his breath, and-Linda realized-flatting badly.

  It was a crude trick, but Gordon succumbed. Linda didn’t see the crack in the barrier at first, it was so small. Only later, when she recalled the interview, did she appreciate Galen’s over-all strategy.

  “I’m grateful to you, too, Doctor,” Gordon said. “But I don’t quite understand…May I speak to you alone?”

  “Why?”

  Galen did not look up from his doodling. Critically he studied a scribble which looked like an arrow, and carefully added three oblique lines to represent the feather at the end of the shaft.

  “To discuss what’s to be done.”

  “That concerns all of us,” Galen pointed out. “Your wife has told me a very disturbing story, Mr. Randolph.”

  He looked up; and Linda, who had felt the full effect of that passionless stare, was not surprised to see Gordon recoil slightly.

  “Disturbing?” he repeated.

  Galen, who had returned to his drawing, nodded vaguely.

  “In what way?”

  Galen shook his head and went on doodling. By now the precise movements of his pen had caught everyone’s attention. Gordon was almost craning his neck to watch, and the distraction had shaken his concentration.

  “I must insist, Doctor,” he said; his voice was no longer pleasant.

  “On what grounds?”

  “Why-because she is my wife. I have the right-”

  “You have no right.” Galen’s voice was remote. “Your wife has placed herself under my care. I called you in to ask you about certain statements she has made, not to report to you.”

  Gordon rose to his feet in a single powerful surge, his face distorted by the expression few people other than Linda had seen. Disregarding his instructions, Michael took a step forward, but it was Galen who stopped Randolph, with a single small gesture of his right hand, so quickly done that Linda could not have described it.

  The effect on Gordon was astounding. He fell back, his face losing its color. Then, as if compelled, he leaned forward and looked at the drawing Galen had made.

  “The College,” he said, in a choked voice. “You are one-”

  “Oh, yes,” Galen said cheerfully.

  Because she was sitting by the desk, next to his right hand, Linda was the only one who saw that hand move. A long index finger flicked a switch; and all the lights went out.

  With the curtains drawn and the door closed, the room was plunged into primeval blackness. Linda heard the long, shaken intake of breath that came from Gordon; it went on so long it seemed impossible that human lungs could hold so much air. Then it burst out, in a sound that shocked the brain and senses as it affronted the ears. She heard a heavy chair fall, and the rush of something through the dark, and she dropped to the floor, crouching, for fear his blind rush would bring him to her. He found the door, after an interval that seemed interminable; the light from the hall was yellow and comforting, silhouetting his tall body. Then he was gone. The front door slammed, waking echoes from the lovely crystal chandelier in the hall.

  The lights came on again.

  “Hmph,” Galen said.

  Crouching on the floor behind his chair, Linda was busy shaking. A pair of hands caught her by the shoulders and hauled her to her feet. She stared into Michael’s face.

  “You all right?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but dumped her unceremoniously on the hassock, and wheeled on the figure pensively posed behind the desk.

  “What College, you congenital liar?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Galen said placidly.

  “Another lie…The drawing. What is it?”

  Galen stirred and stretched.

  “The drawing, like the gesture I made, is an invention. A meaningless hodgepodge of symbols and Hebrew letters. I regret to say that my years of Hebrew school are far behind me, and my knowledge of the Cabala is even vaguer. The effect on Mr. Randolph was interesting, though, wasn’t it?”

  Michael regarded him with no admiration whatever.

  “Of the two of you, I almost think I prefer Randolph. The College, I suppose, is an equally imaginary group of-what? Adepts in magic, squatting on top of Mount Everest thinking about the universe? You deliberately let him think…”

  “I let him think what he wanted to think. And I found out what I wanted to know.” He turned a contemplative stare on Linda, huddled on the hassock. “You were right. I felt sure that you were, but I had to check. And implant a certain useful suggestion.”

  Michael picked up the chair Gordon had overturned in his flight, and sat down. Under its drawn pallor, his face held the first gleam of hope Linda had seen for hours.

  “He thinks you’re a powerful warlock yourself. That isn’t all you learned, is it?”

  “I wondered if you’d notice.”

  “I was blind not to see it before.”

  “When you described his reaction to the power failure in your apartment, I wondered. Knowing that his concern for Mrs. Randolph was only problematical, I suspected another, more immediate cause for his panic.”

  “He’s afraid of the dark,” Michael said. Linda saw him shiver, and felt the same chill. She would never hear that word again without remembering.

  “Yes. Significant, in view of the poetic words of your young friend at the college.” Galen’s voice changed. “Damn you for mentioning it, Michael; I should be immune to that kind of verbal magic, but when I think of what that poor devil sees, when the lights go out…”

  “It isn’t only the dark Gordon fears.” For once Linda was immune to that kind of magic. “He’s afraid of flying. He doesn’t drive a car. He quit smoking.”

  “No contact sports,” Michael muttered. “Even then…Swimming? Lots of other people around, spectators, competitors, just in case…”

  “I believe that Elliott Jacques is correct when he states that this particular anxiety comes to its peak during the crisis of middle life. Randolph is about forty, isn’t he? I’ve seen a number of such cases, since the realization often produces symptoms which require psychotherapeutic treatment-psychosomatic illness, insomnia, claustrophobia, to mention only a few. Randolph’s
reactive symptoms are new to me; but they have a dreadful logic of their own. He fears, not only the dark, but the ultimate darkness. He is afraid of dying.”

  “And that’s why he turned to Satanism,” Michael muttered. “Those conversations we had about good and evil…He doesn’t believe in God, but he can’t accept the inevitability of death. There’s only one other dispenser of immortality. ‘Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.’”

  “Especially if you don’t believe in Heaven,” Galen said. “I hope you’re enjoying your abstract intellectualizing, Michael. You may drown in it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I took a calculated risk with Randolph. We’ve learned some interesting and useful things about him, but we’ve also stirred him up. He left here in a frenzy of rage and fear.”

  “You mean-he’ll try something else?”

  “Almost immediately, I should say.”

  Slowly, the two pairs of eyes turned to focus on Linda.

  III

  “No,” she said. “No, he wouldn’t dare. He was frightened. “I’ve never seen him so upset.”

  “That’s precisely the danger. A man of his temperament doesn’t back down under a challenge. He’ll be all the more eager to strike before, as he thinks, I have time to conjure up all my powers.”

  “God damn your arrogant soul,” Michael said softly. “You deliberately, cold-bloodedly, stirred up that rattlesnake, knowing he can-”

  “It had to be done.” Galen’s seldom-aroused temper showed in his flushed cheeks. “Oh, hell…I ought to know better. One of the basic rules of this trade is not to meddle with your friends’ problems… Tell him, Linda.”

  “Michael, he’s right. How long could we go on, with this hanging over us? Watching each other out of the corners of our eyes, afraid to sleep… Twice I’ve tried to kill someone,” she said, feeling Galen’s silent commendation like a rock at her back. “If I have to go on dreading that, I’d rather be dead. Gordon is off balance, for the first time since I’ve known him. We’ve got to keep him on the defensive.”