Sitting there I contemplated Mycroft's assurance that he could help Midge contact her dead parents and the fact that she was falling for it, really believing this creep was some kind of mystic, able to converse with souls of the since-departed (while I might have gone along with the possibility of life after death, I just couldn't fall for the crazy notion of having a direct line to this other stratum—that was taking "long distance" a bit too far). Yet my heart bled for Midge, because part of her still grieved so much for her parents. In a way, I think she was searching for her own peace of mind. Let's face it, for most of us the tragedy of death is its utter finality—"now you see me, now you don't"—and that hardship, of course, is with those left to mourn. One moment Midge had a family, the next she was quite alone. Certainly there was a little time between losing both, but not enough to break up the trauma.
Her mother, then in her midfifties, had suffered from Parkinson's Disease for a number of years, Midge and her father having caringly nursed her through each degenerative stage. Drugs such as levodopa unfortunately had severe side effects for her, so much so that they could barely be tolerated; according to Midge, her mother's distress had been intense over long periods at a time. Yet the mother worried constantly about the well-being of her husband and daughter, deeply concerned that she was proving such a burden to them both, spoiling—or impeding—their lives, particularly that of her young daughter who was prevented from spending more time fully developing her own remarkable artistic talent. But Midge and her father were prepared to make any sacrifice to keep her as comfortable as possible, and between them they coped pretty well.
Until Midge's father was fatally injured in a car crash.
His skull had been cracked wide open, yet it took five torturous days for him to die. And in his very few coherent moments during that time, his concern had been only for Midge and her mother.
His death, it seemed, had broken down his wife's remaining reserves of strength, and with them the spirit that had helped her resist the worst of the disease. So rapid was her deterioration over the next couple of days that she was unable to attend the funeral. When Midge returned alone to the house after the ceremony, she had found her mother out of her sickbed and slumped, fully clothed, in an armchair, a framed photograph of her late husband cradled in her lap. An empty pill bottle lay at her feet together with a spilled glass of water. A transparent plastic bag, tightened around her neck by a thick rubberband, covered her head.
She'd left a note, begging her daughter's forgiveness and pleading for her to understand. Life had finally become too hard to suffer any longer, the loss of her dear husband, Midge's father, compounding the physical and mental torment; and by remaining alive she merely served to mar her daughter's young life, keeping her tied, stealing her freedom. Her regret was that neither parent would now witness the artistic success their beloved daughter was bound to tind, but at least she, herself, would not hinder that talent.
It was easy to appreciate why Midge was so susceptible to Mycroft and his phony promises.
Her drawing board loomed in the semidarkness, surface angled, the painting held flat against it. Without looking, I knew the moonlight was illuminating the picture in its own eerie fashion, creating a different texture, maybe yet another spooky dimension. I wasn't curious enough to take a peek.
Black shapes skittered across the floor to give me a start, hut I quickly realized that several of our night friends upstairs were leaving the roost, their winged bodies caught in the moon's glare, their shadows cast into the room. The sandwich consumed, I rose from the sofa, taking the drink with me, and wandered over to one of the tall windows, skirting the drawing board and studiously avoiding looking down at the painting.
The landscape outside was washed in that special brightness that had nothing to do with warmth, but a lot to do with ice and bleakness. So colorless was the grass that the expanse appeared frosty, and so deep were the shadows beneath individual bushes and trees that they were like black voids. The forest top wore an undulating silver-gray cover, an impenetrable layer over catacombed darkness.
I sipped milk, and liquid cold soaked into me. My eyes reluctantly scanned the dark boundary of woodland, looking for something I didn't want to find. Discerning a lurking figure would have been impossible anyway, so concealing were the shadows, but that didn't stop me searching, and the knowledge didn't even prevent a sigh of relief when I found nothing.
That relief was premature, though. Because my attention was drawn to something standing midway between the forest and the cottage. Something I didn't remember having been there before.
It was so still it could have been nothing more than a tall bush. But a pallid blob at the top of the motionless shape that could only have been a face said otherwise.
And another smaller whitish shape that now slowly rose up could only have been a hand.
And that hand beckoned me.
NOBODY THERE
I WAS SCARED. No, I was bloody terrified. But I'd also had enough aggravation for one day. I was hurt that I'd been accused of doping, confused by the afternoon's hallucination, and sick of being intimidated by this mystery onlooker who didn't have the nerve to knock on the door and properly introduce him- or herself. All that combined into anger inside me, which rapidly began to boil over.
I think dropping the glass of milk on my toes precipitated (he final eruption.
With a shout of rage, I ran for the door, hopping the first few steps because of the pain. Shooting back the bolts with as much noise as I could make (Midge managed to sleep through all this), I yanked open the door, and then I was out there in the night, racing back around the cottage to the side where the figure waited, slipping on grass still wet and mushy from the day's rain, robe flying open so that air rushed in at my exposed body.
I didn't care, though; enough was enough. I was going to sort out this bloody watcher in the woods once and for all. Forget about discarnate beings and women in black and shrouded apparitions and something wicked this way comes and psycho and omen and exorcist and the evil fucking dead—I was going to confront the beast that wasn't a beast at all but somebody playing silly bloody games at my expense. Whatever fear may have been in me was easily overwhelmed by a furious indignation.
I pounded across the open stretch, ignoring sharp stones or twigs that painfully stuck to the soles of my feet, enraged sufficiently to leave caution well behind.
But I was running out to nobody.
I made for the precise spot where the figure had loitered, judging the position by the line of the window I'd gazed from and a low clump of bushes to the left. I swiveled my head around without breaking pace, not slowing until I reached the place where I was certain the figure had beckoned from.
He, she—or whatever—couldn't possibly have darted back into the woods, nor raced to the other side of the cottage. There wouldn't have been time. But where the hell was it? It couldn't have disappeared into thin air.
I kept running, perhaps more in an effort to keep up my flagging bravado than anything else, scooting around nearby trees, swiping at bushes to flush out anything hiding there. Something did run out from beneath one clump of foliage, in fact, scaring me half to death, but it was small and scurrying, an animal more frightened than me.