Dance with the Devil

CHAPTER 3

The rooms of Owlsden matched the grandeur of the outside, with none of the brooding darkness that had bothered her about its mammoth walls. The entrance foyer was wallpapered in gold and white, carpeted in gold, with a bright, crystal chandelier filling half the ceiling with dancing strips of colored light. The corridor that lead from it to the main perpendicular hall that ran the great length of the mansion was also carpeted in gold, the walls paneled in rich, dark woods. Inset in the ceiling were flat plates of light, a strikingly modem touch in comparison with the antiquity of the house. The furniture that she saw — a writing desk, an umbrella stand, a few occasional chairs, a pedestal or two with busts and statues on them — was all heavy, dark and pleasantly modern, not chintzy Danish but modern furniture with a style, a feeling of artistic merit and value.

Yuri lead her down the south wing to the main drawing room through a wide, paneled arch into a bright room with a wine-colored carpet, cream walls, bold modern paintings and furniture of vinyls and plastics and polished, stainless steel.

“Miss Sellers,” he announced.

There were two people in the room, an old woman and a man about as old as Mike Harrison, twenty-four or twenty-five. For the first time, seeing mother and son together, it occurred to Katherine that Alex Boland had been what is often called an “autumn baby” or “late blessing” having been born when his mother was forty.

Lydia Boland was a tall — a good five inches taller than Katherine — regal-looking woman. She wore her hair off her forehead and then suddenly swept down at each temple, covering her ears. Her complexion was milky and flawless, her eyes dark and bright, quickly taking in everything about her new employee whom she had only met on the telephone and by letter prior to this. She was wearing a lounging pajama set of dark blue with a conservative white trim on the cuffs and collar. She stood up from her plush black vinyl lounge chair and crossed to Katherine, unexpectedly embraced her and — holding her shoulders and standing at arm's length — looked at her in unashamed evaluation.

“You're even lovelier in person than in the photograph,” she said.

Katherine blushed, felt her face redden, probably to a scarlet. She hoped they didn't notice. She said, “Thank you.”

“I think we'll get along famously. I know it.”

“I hope so, Mrs. Boland.”

“Lydia,” the woman corrected her.

When Katherine felt that the woman was waiting for her to repeat it, like a child learning a hard lesson, she said, “Lydia.”

“That's better!” Lydia said. “I hate being addressed formally, because it makes me feel old.”

“You aren't old, mother,” the young man said, crossing to them. “Just — gracious.”

Lydia laughed and put her arm around his shoulder. “He has his father's way with words. He's a liar, but I don't mind those kind of lies.”

“Do you prefer being called Katherine or Kathy?” he asked.

He was as handsome as Michael Harrison had been, but in an altogether different manner. He was as tall as Harrison, with the same erect carriage and a sense of power — though he was somewhat slimmer. He was not fair-complexioned like Michael, but dark, perpetually tanned as if he might contain a drop of gypsy blood or less romantically and probably more accurately, some Latin ancestry. His eyes were dark, darker than his mother's eyes, almost black. When he looked at Katherine, she had the feeling that he was staring directly through her at some alien landscape beyond. His lips were thin, almost ascetic, his chin firm but not so much like carved granite as Michael Harrison's chin was. His voice was smooth, like oil, the words rolling forth seemingly without effort. He could have been, Katherine decided, a matinee idol anytime from 1920 to the present, with but a few minor changes in dress and hairstyle to conform with the dictates of each decade.

“I prefer Katherine,” she said, “though everyone thinks I must be a snob or something when I say that.”

“Not at all,” Alex said. “I think Katherine is a lovely name.”

“I do too,” Lydia said. “And I can see at a glance that you're certainly not a 'snob,' my dear.”

“Thank you,” she said.

Lydia clapped her hands together now and said, “But you must be starved by now!”

“The drive in used up a lot of energy,” Katherine admitted. “I was on the edge of my car seat the whole way — not to mention the tension in the Land Rover with Mr. Harrison.”

“He didn't show-off too badly, did he?” Alex asked.

She detected a distinct note of disdain in Alex's voice when he spoke of Harrison, though he presented the same outward appearance of mild curiosity and friendly interest.

“The waitress at the cafe in town rounded him up for me,” she said. “She warned him to be on his best behavior.”

“Sometimes,” Alex said, “he drives that thing like a child on a toy of some sort. He can be downright dangerous.”

“Don't exaggerate, Alex,” Lydia said. “I think Mike is a fine young man.”

“You think everyone's fine,” Alex said without rancor.

“Well,” Lydia said, “the nearest bath is straight down the corridor the way you came, under the grand staircase, if you'd like to wash up for dinner. We can show you your room afterwards, if that's all right.”

“Fine,” Katherine said.

“The dining room is at the far end of the corridor, beyond the stairs. We'll wait for you there.”

The bathroom under the staircase surprised Katherine, for she had thought of it in terms of a simple powder room. More than anything else so far, it gave her a sense of being among the very wealthy, for it was terribly lavish, though in good taste. It included a shower stall, a sunken, marble tub, thick, red shag carpet, a double sink, a revolving mirror between the sinks, a television set in a wall recess and a case of bath oils, perfumes and powders. It was nearly as large as the average living room.

By contrast, she was surprised at how small the dining room was, for it was no larger than the bath, with a table to seat four, buffets along two walls, two out-sized oils on the other walls, and just enough room to sit down and eat and be served in comfort. When she commented on what appeared to be an architectural mistake or eccentricity, she elicited smiles from both Lydia and Alex.

“It's the smallest of three dining rooms in Owlsden,” Lydia told her.

“Three?”

“They were never meant to be used simultaneously, though,” Alex said, grinning.

Lydia said, “This is the intimate room for small dinners, while the dining area across the hall is meant to service anywhere from eight to twenty. Upstairs, on the second level, a grand dining room for large affairs has not been used in a great many years. It can comfortably seat a hundred people, a hundred and twenty in a pinch. But I'm not much for entertaining. In fact, I'm not really that crazy for Owlsden itself. I thought it was a monstrosity of poor taste when I was a little girl, and I've never changed my opinion. I am, however, fond of the place, since so much of my life and the meaning of my life has been formed in these rooms.”

As the dinner was served — beef stroganoff over rice, a salad and two kinds of wine, as Lydia said, “to help you taste the food more completely" — she was introduced to Mason and Patricia Keene, a middle-aged couple who took care of the kitchen, meals, serving and all related household chores. The woman was slim and attractive with large, round eyes like circles of soft gray velvet, while the husband was balding and somewhat like a stereotyped high school English teacher. Both seemed quiet and even withdrawn, though very polite and efficient.

The conversation flitted from topic to topic as they ate and was never marked by an embarrassing silence. Indeed, Katherine thought, it was almost as if the three of them had known each other for years and were accustomed to spending many evenings together immersed in conversation.

Dinner finished, they retired to the drawing room again where they were served coffee by Mason Keene and tiny fruit-nut cakes by Patricia. Somehow, without later being able to recall just what had lead her into it, Katherine mentioned the strangled, tortured cat and the Satanic markings she had found on the barn floor.

“How awful!” Lydia said. “It's the worst possible welcome I can imagine.”

“Michael Harrison warned me to be careful of such things,” she said. “He said that if I ever came across anything like that I was not to hang around it for fear the Satanists would return.”

“Silliness!” Lydia said. “What would they return for?”

“Perhaps they wouldn't appreciate my mucking around in their chalk drawings and disturbing the body of their sacrifice—”

“Don't listen to Harrison,” Alex said. The disdainful tone had come back into his voice, stronger than it had been before. “These so-called Satanists are probably a few local teenagers playing some silly games to keep the adults up in the air.”

“But killing animals is more than a game — that's ugly mischief.”

“Still, some teenagers can be ugly when they want,” Lydia said.

“I suppose.”

Lydia picked up one of the last pieces of cake and took a dainty bite from it. When she had chewed and swallowed, she said, “Anyway, even if it isn't a prank, one can hardly take Satanists seriously. I mean, all those ghostly chants at midnight, drawing chalk circles and trying to summon demons, selling their souls… It's so absurd that it's nearly funny.”

“I guess,” she said, though she did not like the way they were so quick to belittle the notion of danger.

“Don't let Harrison upset you,” Alex said, smiling at her over the last of his coffee, white trails of steam rising in front of his face so that it looked, at odd moments, as if he were staring at her through an ethereal veil. “He never has been one for responsibility. His approach to the Satanists pretty much matches his irresponsible behavior in other ways.”

“Really, Alex,” Lydia said, “you don’t have to be that hard on the boy, do you?”

“I don't like him,” Alex said flatly. His dark eyebrows pressed together over his nose as he frowned, and his lips were compressed as tightly as two pencil lines.

“I think he seems a fine, capable young man,” Lydia said imperiously, as if the subject were now closed.

“You're generous with everyone,” he said. “Far too generous.”

Katherine wished she could derail this most recent line of the conversation and get back to more pleasant topics. She had noticed, all through the evening, that Alex Boland tended to look upon the gloomy side of things, tempering his mother's bright and cheerful outlook on nearly every subject. His put-down of Michael Harrison, whom Katherine had liked a good deal, was like a black cherry on the top of his vaguely unpleasant fault-finding.

Lydia looked at her wristwatch for the first time that evening and said, somewhat surprised, “Goodness, it's going on eleven o'clock!” She smiled at Katherine and said, “I guess that's s certain proof that we are going to get along well together — I didn't notice a dull, dragging moment all evening long.” She stood up, dusting her hands together. “And I'm afraid that I have not been at all thoughtful. You haven't even been shown your quarters yet — or given a chance to rest. You must be enormously weary after a day of driving in this weather.”

“I do feel ready for bed,” Katherine admitted.

“I'd imagine the covers are turned down,” Lydia said. “Your private bath contains extra linen and towels, but Yuri can show you all of that.”

“One thing,” Katherine said.

“Yes?”

“I'd like to know what time I'm expected to be up and around in the morning and if—”

Lydia said, “No trouble there. I rise at eight-thirty or nine o'clock in the morning — neither country-early nor rich-late.” She chuckled, a sixty-four-year-old woman who looked fifty and acted thirty-five. “I'm usually ready to dictate a few letters or clear up some other business by ten-thirty or so. If you're available then, that's fine.”

“Marvelous!” Katherine said, unable to contain her enthusiasm for the relaxed schedule.

In the orphanage, the morning began promptly at seven o'clock, rain or shine, no matter what the season, except for Saturday when there was no school, no crafts and no church services. Then, you could sleep until nine or nine-thirty before the maids wanted in the rooms. In college, she had worked part time, odd hours. The job and her regular classes had precluded any lazy mornings. This position, then, was going to turn her into an idler if she were not careful — but a happy idler, anyway.

“Well, Yuri will show you to your room. He has already placed your bags there.”

When Katherine turned toward the arch, she discovered that the squat servant was waiting for her, framed by the arch as he had been framed by the massive front doors when she had first seen him earlier in the evening. He was smiling, all of his fine, white, pointed teeth showing. She had not heard his approach, and she barely heard his invitation as he said, “If you will come this way, Miss Sellers, I'll show you to your quarters.”

“Goodnight,” Katherine said.

They replied in kind as she passed through the arch in Yuri's wake, and Alex wished her a special “good sleep.”

She followed Yuri up the dimly lighted main staircase which was entirely of polished teak, so dark that it was almost black, so expensive that she did not want to consider the cost. Lydia's father had certainly been a show-off with his fortune. It was clear why Lydia, even as a child, had looked upon Owlsden as a monstrosity.

Her room was at the end of the corridor on the north wing, second floor. It was nearly as spacious as the drawing room in which they had spent most of the evening. The bed was a massive four-poster without a canopy. The ancient headboard contained twelve cleverly concealed drawers and storage slots which Yuri pointed out to her, one by one, smiling as she murmured her approval of the ancient craftsman's fine work. A crimson bedspread lay across the sheets, and two goose-feather pillows were plumped beneath it at the base of the headboard.

The furniture on both sides of the bed — a hutch, triple chest, a large easy chair with a matching footstool, a full-length mirror on a stand that permitted it to be spun about or tilted at nearly any angle, a vanity and matching bench, two nightstands each with a lamp— was equally dark and massive and lasting in appearance, but it was comfortable furniture that she would soon feel at home with.

The bath which adjoined her bedroom contained a shower stall and a sunken tub and was quite as elaborate as the bath beneath the stairs on the first floor. The beauty cabinet contained a wide variety of oils, scents and powders, plus clean, plastic-wrapped combs and brushes. The wall closet held extra sheets and towels, though Yuri made it plain that her bed would be made for her every morning and that the linen and towels would be changed regularly.

One of the three closets which lead off the bedroom contained a waist-high refrigerator which had already been stocked with fruit juices, sodas, cheeses and a few other snacks. He informed her that she had only to tell Patricia Keene what she would like to have supplied her, and the refrigerator would be re-filled twice a week or as often as was required.

She loved it. It was perfect, or as close to perfection as anything she had had before.

“May I please also make a suggestion that might concern your safety and happiness in Owlsden?” Yuri asked.

The tone of the question, the strained expression on his broad face were at odds with the good-humored tour guide he had been only a moment earlier. “Certainly,” she said, apprehensively.

“Lock your door when you retire each night,” he said. “The iron bolt is ancient but sound.”

“Why should I lock it?” she asked, curious about the secretive manner in which Yuri had broached the subject. She was certain that he did not want Lydia and Alex to know what advice he was giving her.

Obviously, he did not want to explain the suggestion, and he looked down at the carpet, as if she would forget that she had asked. He said, “And if you are wise, you will not leave Owlsden for a stroll around the grounds — not once the hour of midnight has passed and not before dawn.”

“Yuri—” she began, not a little exasperated by this sudden, mysterious turn in the conversation.

“Come here,” he said abruptly, walking toward the largest window in her room. He was confident again, sure of himself. It was clear that he had decided to tell her everything, the reasoning behind these odd bits of advice.

She went to the window and looked out.

The snow was still falling, more like a horizontal avalanche than a snowstorm as the wind drove it from left to right across the window. The view looked out from the back of the house on a lawn that was not clearly defined in the blizzard, toward an endless stretch of scraggly darkness which she took to be the forest.

“It must be a beautiful view by daylight.”

“Quite,” Yuri said. “But in darkness, at midnight and after, it is something else again.”

“Are you trying to tell me its haunted or something?” she asked.

“Something,” Yuri said, “but not exactly haunted.” He wiped a thick hand across the sweat-dotted expanse of his broad forehead, then continued, “Twice in the last several months, I have stood at the second floor windows and watched strange lights and stranger figures cavorting down by the pines, at the very edge of the forest, not more than seven hundred yards from this window.”

Katherine felt chilled, though her room was adequately heated. She said, “What are you trying to tell me?”

He sighed. “Miss Sellers, my home is Romania, a dark but beautiful land in Europe. I was born there and grew up there and did not leave until 1942 when I fled the influence of the Nazis. In Romania, indeed in much of Europe, the people do not scoff at many of the things that you in America find so amusing. A belief in evil spirits, possession and exorcism, werewolves and vampires is as common a part of their lives as the knowledge that they must one day die in the natural cycle of things. I am an educated man, as I hope is evident, and yet I can see the wisdom in many of these beliefs and accept the knowledge of generations even if science laughs at it.”

“And you think there are werewolves in this forest?” she asked, trying to be light and airy, but not quite succeeding.

“Worse than that,” he said, a flicker of a smile passing across his thick lips, a smile that contained more of a sense of irony than of good humor.

“What, then?”

“Twice, I have watched a devil's dance in progress.”

“A dance?”

“I know that you've heard about the Satanic cult that has been practicing its own brand of 'religion' in these hills during the last year and a half.”

“Yes,” Katherine said, not bothering to explain about the cat she had found.

“When these cultists welcome a new member to their ranks, a new soul designated for Satan, they perform a devil's dance that is not unlike those I witnessed as a child in Romania. It is an age-old ritual of evil with the most frighteningly powerful ceremonial frenzy I have ever seen. The cultists pray to Satan as the bonfire is lighted, then they slaughter an animal and cast its blood into the flames. Blood is also splashed upon the earth in a circle about the fire, a preliminary guide to the path the dancers will take. In the middle of the dance, if the cult is performing it sincerely and if the new member is a desirable soul to possess, the devil appears in some form or other — perhaps as a dog or wolf, perhaps as a great leopard or black panther with yellowed eyes. He rises on his hindpaws and dances with the new member, to welcome him to the legions of the damned.”

“You can't be serious,” Katherine said. At first, he had frightened her with his warning about the locked door. Now, when she could see that he was merely superstitious, the warning was less unsettling. She could fear prowlers and other human agents, but not spirits of another world. It was almost comical.

“I am very serious,” Yuri said.

She realized that she had hurt his feelings, and she said, “And after the devil has danced with the new cultist?”

“He punctures the throat of the newcomer with his fangs and drinks the blood — simultaneously spitting his own hideous plasma back into the tainted body.”

“That's positively grotesque!” Katherine said, turning quickly away from the window and the forest beyond. “You Romanians have a morbid imagination, don't you?”

“Perhaps it is not imagination at all,” he said, wiping at his face again, as if brushing off a cobweb that he had walked into. “Perhaps it is only observation”

“I'm sorry, Yuri, but I think that sounds silly; I can't accept it. Understand that I wasn't born and raised in Europe, but here in the United States. We teach our children that the devil is little to be feared and that all those other things — werewolves and vampires and so forth — are only real in the movies.”

He had crossed the room as she spoke and stood by the carved door. “I understand,” he said. “And please try to understand me, too. I was not attempting to frighten you, but was merely presenting what seemed to be good advice. Will you lock your door when you retire?”

Reluctantly, she said, “Yes.”

He smiled, pleased with even this small concession, and said, “Excellent! Goodnight, Miss Sellers.”

He was gone in a moment, closing the heavy door behind him, leaving her alone for the first time since she had entered Owlsden.

Katherine sat on the edge of her bed and looking into the full-length mirror that rested on its stand only half a dozen feet away, surveyed her appearance. She realized that her expression was drawn and haggard, the corners of her mouth turned down and touched with doubt. She looked as if she had actually been terrified by Yuri's nonsense and would spend every night in Owlsden shivering in expectation of a vampire fluttering close by her window. She suddenly laughed; the figure in the mirror laughed too. Seeing her smile reflected, she felt a great deal better.

As she prepared for bed, she had time to consider the little scene that had so recently been played out before the window in this room, and she began to wonder if Yuri had motives beyond those that he claimed. He was obviously well educated and it was exceedingly difficult to believe that he was as superstitious a man as he pretended to be.

But what other motivation could he have? Did he mean to frighten her? If so, why?

When she was ready for bed, she found that her ruminations had driven away all desire for sleep. Her eyes felt as if they were pinned open and lacquered in position.

She opened her suitcases and unpacked them, hung her clothes in the two large closets and folded others away in the drawers of the hutch and the triple chest.

When she finished unpacking, she went to the window and stared out at the snow and the distant woods where, Yuri insisted, the devil's dance had taken place. It all seemed unreal.

She went to bed, slid beneath the covers, and reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. Darkness flooded into the room, deep and complete at first, then slowly lightening as the less-dark night sent pale, questing fingers of light through the uncurtained windows.

Everything was going to be fine, she decided. The job was perfect. She liked both Lydia and Alex Boland and as a change from the things she had known previously, she liked the almost embarrassing luxury of Owlsden. The future could not be brighter. Except… except, what had Yuri been trying to tell her, and why had he really felt it necessary that she keep her door locked at night…?