to come back,” said Reuben. “He planned to come back all the time. And he does want the house. He has to want it.”
“No, Reuben, you’ve got it wrong,” she said. “Yes, he planned someday to return. But not while Marchent was connected to the property. After she’d moved to South America, his agents made repeated offers under various names to purchase the house, but Marchent always refused. Felix told me this himself, just in conversation. Nothing secretive about it. He was waiting her out. Then events caught him completely unawares.”
“The point is he wants it now,” said Reuben. “Of course he wants it. He built it himself.”
“But he’s not in any hurry,” she said.
“I’ll give it to him. It never cost me one silver dime.”
“But do you think this ghost knows all these things?” Laura asked. “Does this ghost care?”
“No,” he said. He shook his head. He thought of Marchent’s contorted face, thought of her hand extended, as if to reach through the glass. “Maybe I’m on the wrong track. Maybe it’s the Christmas plans that are disturbing her spirit—plans for a party so soon after her death. But maybe that’s not it at all.”
Again, he had a strong sense of Marchent, as if the apparition had involved a new and eerie intimacy, and the misery he’d felt seemed infinitely more deeply rooted in the Marchent he knew.
“No, the party plans wouldn’t offend her. That wouldn’t be enough to bring her back from wherever she is, make her visit you in this way.”
Reuben’s mind drifted. He fell silent. He realized nothing more could be known until this spirit appeared to him again.
“Ghosts often come at Midwinter, don’t they?” Laura asked. “I mean, think of all the Christmas ghost stories in the English language. That’s always been a matter of tradition, that ghosts walk at this time of the year; they’re strong at this time, as though the veil between the living and dead becomes fragile.”
“Yes, Phil always said the same thing,” Reuben said. “That’s why Dickens’s
Christmas Carol
has such a strong hold on us. It’s all that old lore about spirits coming through at this time of year.”
“Come back to me,” said Laura taking his hand. “Don’t think about this any more now.” She motioned for the check. “There’s a little bed-and-breakfast near here.” She smiled at him, the most incandescent and gently knowing smile. “It’s always fun, isn’t it, a different bed, different rafters overhead.”
“Let’s go,” he said.
Two blocks away in a charming Craftsman cottage nestled in a garden, they made love in an old brass bed below a close sloping ceiling. Yellow flowers in the wallpaper. Candle on the old cast-iron mantel. Rose petals on the sheet.
Laura was rough, urgent, inflaming him with her hunger.
Suddenly she stopped and drew back.
“Can you bring it on now?” she whispered. “Please, do it. Be the Man Wolf for me.”
The room was shadowy, quiet, white shutters closed against the fading afternoon light.
Before he could reply, the metamorphosis had begun.
He found himself standing by the bed, his body yielding up the wolfen coat, the claws, the rippling, elongating tendons of his arms and legs. It was as if he could hear his mane growing, hear the silken hair covering his face. He looked about him with new eyes at the quaint, fragile furnishings of the room.
“And this is what you want, madam?” he asked in the usual low, baritone voice of the Man Wolf, so much darker, richer than his own normal voice. “We are risking discovery, are we, for this?”
She smiled.
She was studying him as never before. She ran her hands over the fur on his forehead, her fingers gripping the long rougher hair of his head.
He drew her towards him and then down on the bare boards. She pushed and pulled as if she wanted to provoke him, beating against his chest with her fists even as she kissed him, pressing her tongue to his fang teeth.
6
I T
“No, Reuben, you’ve got it wrong,” she said. “Yes, he planned someday to return. But not while Marchent was connected to the property. After she’d moved to South America, his agents made repeated offers under various names to purchase the house, but Marchent always refused. Felix told me this himself, just in conversation. Nothing secretive about it. He was waiting her out. Then events caught him completely unawares.”
“The point is he wants it now,” said Reuben. “Of course he wants it. He built it himself.”
“But he’s not in any hurry,” she said.
“I’ll give it to him. It never cost me one silver dime.”
“But do you think this ghost knows all these things?” Laura asked. “Does this ghost care?”
“No,” he said. He shook his head. He thought of Marchent’s contorted face, thought of her hand extended, as if to reach through the glass. “Maybe I’m on the wrong track. Maybe it’s the Christmas plans that are disturbing her spirit—plans for a party so soon after her death. But maybe that’s not it at all.”
Again, he had a strong sense of Marchent, as if the apparition had involved a new and eerie intimacy, and the misery he’d felt seemed infinitely more deeply rooted in the Marchent he knew.
“No, the party plans wouldn’t offend her. That wouldn’t be enough to bring her back from wherever she is, make her visit you in this way.”
Reuben’s mind drifted. He fell silent. He realized nothing more could be known until this spirit appeared to him again.
“Ghosts often come at Midwinter, don’t they?” Laura asked. “I mean, think of all the Christmas ghost stories in the English language. That’s always been a matter of tradition, that ghosts walk at this time of the year; they’re strong at this time, as though the veil between the living and dead becomes fragile.”
“Yes, Phil always said the same thing,” Reuben said. “That’s why Dickens’s
Christmas Carol
has such a strong hold on us. It’s all that old lore about spirits coming through at this time of year.”
“Come back to me,” said Laura taking his hand. “Don’t think about this any more now.” She motioned for the check. “There’s a little bed-and-breakfast near here.” She smiled at him, the most incandescent and gently knowing smile. “It’s always fun, isn’t it, a different bed, different rafters overhead.”
“Let’s go,” he said.
Two blocks away in a charming Craftsman cottage nestled in a garden, they made love in an old brass bed below a close sloping ceiling. Yellow flowers in the wallpaper. Candle on the old cast-iron mantel. Rose petals on the sheet.
Laura was rough, urgent, inflaming him with her hunger.
Suddenly she stopped and drew back.
“Can you bring it on now?” she whispered. “Please, do it. Be the Man Wolf for me.”
The room was shadowy, quiet, white shutters closed against the fading afternoon light.
Before he could reply, the metamorphosis had begun.
He found himself standing by the bed, his body yielding up the wolfen coat, the claws, the rippling, elongating tendons of his arms and legs. It was as if he could hear his mane growing, hear the silken hair covering his face. He looked about him with new eyes at the quaint, fragile furnishings of the room.
“And this is what you want, madam?” he asked in the usual low, baritone voice of the Man Wolf, so much darker, richer than his own normal voice. “We are risking discovery, are we, for this?”
She smiled.
She was studying him as never before. She ran her hands over the fur on his forehead, her fingers gripping the long rougher hair of his head.
He drew her towards him and then down on the bare boards. She pushed and pulled as if she wanted to provoke him, beating against his chest with her fists even as she kissed him, pressing her tongue to his fang teeth.
6
I T
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