“Kill me! Take me!” Ryan cried. “Just stop laughing at me!”
That brought about even more hysterical laughter.
Ryan collapsed into a ball, sobbing. Terrified, broken, he pissed his pants.
All around him the room filled up with laughter. It seemed to Ryan that he’d never hear anything else again except the laughter. He fell over onto his side, reduced to a blubbering fool on a floor covered with blood and urine.
Chapter Thirty-six
From the foyer came the sound of laughter.
Carolyn faced Howard Young with new urgency. “You must tell us!” she demanded. “You must tell us everything you know!”
The old man just sat there, yellow tears rolling down the flaking parchment of his cheeks.
Douglas had peered out the door. “Ryan’s out there,” he reported back to the group. “I can hear his voice.”
“Mr. Young,” Carolyn said. “Is Jeanette correct? Is all this being done by Beatrice’s baby?”
Slowly, the old man nodded his head.
“How is that possible?” Carolyn asked. “For a mere baby…”
“Malcolm has learned a great deal in his eighty years in that room,” Jeanette explained. “He has learned to mimic our speech, our words… He has even learned how to make letters on a wall.”
Carolyn stared at her, dumbstruck.
“He’s learned other things as well,” Jeanette continued. “He’s learned about the ways in which people seek revenge.”
“Dear God,” Carolyn said.
“But at his heart, Malcolm is still just a baby, with a baby’s emotions. He is angry and frustrated and frightened.”
“All of this,” Carolyn said, the full realization hitting her, “is merely a baby’s tantrum.”
“That’s right,” Jeanette said. “That is an excellent way of putting it.”
“How do we stop him then?” Douglas asked.
Jeanette had turned once again to the old man in the chair. “Uncle Howard,” she said, “you must tell us everything that happened eighty years ago in this house. There could still be time to do what is needed to end this!”
“Please, Mr. Young,” Carolyn begged. “You want this terrible curse to end. I know you do.”
Douglas had moved over to confront his uncle again. “No more deaths, Uncle Howie. How many more can you tolerate? My father, and indirectly my mother…and just today, Dean and Philip and Chelsea. And now Ryan is out there begging for his life! Please, Uncle Howie! Tell us what you know.”
The old man’s watery eyes looked at each of them in turn.
“All right,” he said brokenly. “I will tell you everything.”
EIGHTY YEARS EARLIER
Chapter Thirty-seven
Howard Young was not yet eighteen, but already he was a big, strapping fellow, a solid six feet, the tallest and handsomest of the five Young brothers. Of course, Jacob and Timothy were still just sixteen and thirteen, respectively. They might eventually pass Howard in height. But everyone agreed that none of the boys quite matched Howard in looks. His fair hair, wavy and thick, crowned a perfectly symmetrical face, defined by crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw with a cleft chin.
Howard understood his appeal. He had seen the look in Beatrice’s eyes the first day she came to work for them. She had paused, looking up at him from under her long dark lashes. It was a look Howard had returned. Beatrice Swan was exquisite. A year older than Howard, she had mysterious dark eyes and luxurious black hair. Her breasts were full and round, and her smile hinted at pleasures to come. It wasn’t long before Howard discovered just what those pleasures were.
Slipping upstairs after the household was asleep, Howard knew she’d be waiting for him. The little alcove in the attic with the bay window had become their secret meeting place. It was here that Beatrice had given herself to him-the first time Howard had known the full joy of making love to a woman. His heart quickened as he climbed the steep steps to the attic.
She turned to him as he entered, her smile bright, her eyes glowing, her arms outstretched. He fell into them, reveling in her sweet fragrance. He kissed her neck, her hair, her lips. His hands moved up her body, cupping her soft breasts.
“Oh, Howard, I do love you so,” Beatrice whispered, her lips on his ear.
Did he love her in return? Howard thought perhaps he did, though he had never been in love before, so he had no idea what it might feel like. Certainly he loved the way she felt, and the secret things she did to his body.
“You will be the greatest of all your father’s sons,” she said. “I know this. I can see things in my mind. It is a gift. My mother had it, too. You will surpass all of them.”
Beatrice knew of the rivalry among Howard and his brothers. He had confided in her, telling her how they had always competed, ever since they were children. Whether it be in polo or foxhunting or swimming or lacrosse, the five Young brothers were always trying to one-up each other. It was his eldest brother Douglas whom Howard envied the most. Douglas would inherit this house someday; he would be master here. Douglas stood to take the biggest share of their father’s fortune. He had already married, to a woman who was an heiress herself, and produced four grandchildren for their father, the latest being a baby girl, Cynthia. All four could now lay claim to the family wealth, dividing up what might otherwise have been left over for Howard. Many were the times that he rued being born the third son.
“Yes,” Beatrice was murmuring, “I see you as the greatest Young of them all. This house will be yours, Howard. I see it.”
“There are too many others ahead of me in line,” he told her, kissing her neck.
“It will be yours,” she promised.
She was unbuttoning his shirt now, slipping her hands inside to caress his chest. Howard leaned his head back and moaned in pleasure. Beatrice was very good at taking the lead in their lovemaking. She pressed his hand to her lips and sucked each finger into her mouth.
“Someday will you marry me?” Beatrice asked, her black eyes locked on his. “Make me mistress of this house?”
“Of course, of course,” Howard promised, feeling the hardness swelling in his pants, the urge to have her, possess her.
She kissed him then. Deep and full. He pressed himself down on top of her, unbuckling his belt and lifting her long skirt in nearly the same motion.
“Make love to me, Howard,” Beatrice purred.
But suddenly there was a scraping of wood. The door behind them was opening.
“So this is what has been going on,” a deep voice echoed through the alcove.
Howard spun around. His father stood there glaring over them in his nightshirt.
“Papa,” Howard uttered, standing awkwardly, his loose belt dangling in front of him. Beatrice let out a little shriek.
“Go to your room,” Desmond Young commanded the servant girl. She quickly pulled her dress back down and scampered out of the alcove. Her frantic footsteps rushing down the stairs echoed through the house.
Meanwhile, his father’s eyes never left Howard’s face. Even with his own eyes averted, the young man could feel them burning holes in his skin.
“This is not how I raise my sons,’ Desmond Young finally intoned. “No son of mine takes up with a scullery maid.”
“I’m sorry, Papa.”
“Meet me in the study,” the older man said, turning and heading back down the stairs.
Howard sighed. He fastened his belt, buttoned his shirt. He had thought he’d been so smooth, so quiet, sneaking up here to meet Beatrice several nights a week. But clearly his father had noticed something. Desmond Young was a very shrewd man. Very little got past him. Howard had been a fool to try.
Trudging into the study, he faced the somber patriarch sitting at his desk.
“She is pretty,” Papa said. “I will grant you that. But those French girls…they are all witches. They will cling onto you, and expect much in return for their kisses.”