The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,350

and then flung it as far as she could through the underbrush. I heard it strike water, with a dull short sound. She was shaking violently. “It’ll come back,” she said. “It will come back! It always comes back.”

“Maybe you can exorcise him!” I said. “You and only you.”

“Oh, yes, that’s what she says, that’s what she always said. ‘Don’t look at him, don’t speak to him, don’t let him touch you!’ But he always comes back. He doesn’t ask my permission! And … ”

“Yes.”

“When I’m lonely, when I’m miserable … ”

“He’s there.”

“Yes, he’s there.”

This girl was in agony. Something had to be done!

“And what if he does come, Deirdre? What I am saying is, what if you do not fight him, and you let him come, let him be visible. What then?”

Stunned and hurt she looked at me. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know it’s driving you mad to fight him. What happens if you don’t fight him?”

“I die,” she answered. “And the world dies around me, and there’s only him.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

How long she has lived with this misery, I thought. And how strong she is, and so helpless and so afraid.

“Yes, Mr. Lightner, that’s true,” she said. “I am afraid. But I am not going to die. I’m going to fight him. And I’m going to win. You’re going to leave me. You’re never going to come near me again. And I’m never going to say his name again, or look at him, or invite him to come. And he’ll leave me. He’ll go away. He’ll find someone else to see him. Someone … to love.”

“Does he love you, Deirdre?”

“Yes,” she whispered. It was growing dark. I could no longer see her features clearly.

“What does he want, Deirdre?” I asked.

“You know what he wants!” she answered. “He wants me, Mr. Lightner. The same thing you want! Because I make him come through.”

She took a little knot of handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped at her nose. “He told me you were coming,” she said. “He said something strange, something I can’t remember. It was like a curse, what he said. It was ‘I shall eat the meat and drink the wine and have the woman when he is moldering in the grave.’ ”

“I’ve heard those words before,” I answered.

“I want you to go away,” she said. “You’re a nice man. I like you. I don’t want him to hurt you. I’ll tell him that he mustn’t—” She stopped, confused.

“Deirdre, I believe I can help you … ”

“No!”

“I can help you fight him if that’s your decision. I know people in England who … ”

“No!”

I waited, then said softly, “If you ever need my help, call me.” She didn’t answer. I could feel her utter exhaustion. Her near despair. I told her where I was staying in Denton, that I would be there until tomorrow, and that if I didn’t hear from her I would go. I felt an utter failure, but I could not hurt her any more! I gazed off into the whispering bamboo. It was getting darker and darker. And there were no lights in this rank garden.

“But your aunt is wrong about us,” I said, unsure of her attention. I stared up at the little bit of sky above which was now quite white. “We want to tell you what we know. We want to give you what we have. It’s true we care about you because you are a special person, but we care far more about you than we care about him. You could come to our house in London. Stay there as long as you like. We’ll introduce you to others who’ve seen such things, battled them. We’ll help you. And who knows, perhaps we can somehow make him go away. And any time you want to go, we’ll help you to go.” (She didn’t answer.) “You know I’m speaking the truth,” I said. “And I know that you know.”

I looked at her, quite afraid to see the pain in her face. She was staring at me exactly the way she had been before, her eyes sad and glazed with tears, and her hands limp in her lap. And directly behind her, he stood, not even an inch from her, brilliantly realized, staring with his brown eyes at me.

I cried out before I could stop myself. Like a fool, I leapt to my feet.

“What is it!” she cried. She was terrified.