Dance with the Devil

that nothing was out of place there…

The rap came again, softly, lasting a long time.

She got out of her bed and stepped into her slippers. The insides of the slippers were cold and made her shiver — or, at least, that was her own explanation for the tremors that raced up and down her spine.

“Lydia?” she asked.

No one answered.

She put on her robe, carefully buttoned it, taking her time, then she stood by the bed for a few moments, waiting for something more to happen. “Is that you, Alex?” she asked, ashamed at the quaver in her voice but unable to control it. What was she afraid of? “Yuri?”

Only silence.

She flicked on the bedside lamp and waited for the knocking sound to come again. When several long minutes had passed, she went to the door and pressed her ear so tightly against the wood that it pained her a little. She held her breath as she tried to detect the sounds of someone beyond, but she could not hear anything other than the profound silence of Owlsden.

“Who's there?”

When she still received no reply, she slid back the iron bolt on the door, gripped the antique knob and swung the portal outward onto the unlighted corridor.

The light from her own room plainly showed that there was not anyone nearby. Perhaps the darkness beyond the stairwell, in the other wing, concealed a watcher. But she did not feel much like walking down there in order to find out. Too, she had an undeniably strong suspicion that that was just what was wanted of her — to walk into the shadows down there…

Wondering if, after all, she had imagined it, she turned to enter her room and saw what had been done to the outside of her door. A large, dark circle lay in the center of the door, filled with Latin words which had been scrawled hastily in white chalk.

She looked quickly toward the far end of the corridor, hoping to catch someone unawares. She saw only the shadows.

Raising a hand, she tried to wipe away the markings. In the dim light, she had thought that the circle was drawn in a dark-colored chalk, but she now found that it was wet and sticky. Stepping back into her room, she held her hand out before her and looked at the rich brightness of fresh blood which had been used to paint the mark.

She closed the door, locked it with her clean hand, tested the bolt, then went into her private bath and thoroughly washed her hands. She scrubbed the sink vigorously when she was done, so that not a single red smear remained to remind her of what she had just done.

As she looked up to be sure that no blood spotted her face, she was shocked by her expression. Her eyes were too wide, her lips drawn into a thin, hard line, her jaw thrust forward. She realized, at the same moment, that she was gritting her teeth. Bending over, she looked away from the mirror and took several long, deep breaths. They only helped a little bit.

She washed her face in warm water, then splashed it with cold, dried on a new hand towel from the linen closet. When she looked in the mirror again, she did not look quite so close to the brink of an uncontrolled shriek, but she did not look normal. Her complexion was waxy, pale. The flesh below her eyes was smudged purple-brown, and the eyes themselves were still too open and staring.

“Where's the famous Sellers smile?” she asked her reflection.

But she knew what the trouble was. Always before, she had bounced back from an unpleasant development, swung from fear to joviality in an almost manic-depressive manner. Now, however, too many things had built up, one on top of the other, each more bitter than the last, until they smothered her optimism completely. And now, depressed and fearful, she could not summon even a small part of that bright outlook. Perhaps that meant that her optimism had never been genuine, had been nothing more than a fragile shield against the world and had dissolved swiftly the first time that the world weighed heavily against it.

No, that was as bad as something one of Alex's friends might come up with, a very negative sarcasm that was not really like Katherine and which would do her more harm, right now, than good.

She went to the door of the bedroom, and unlocked it, and looked at the signs again. Then, picking up the flashlight she had used on her post-midnight excursion on the third floor, she went down the corridor to the far wing and found Yuri's door. She knocked lightly, twice, before she could hear any movement inside. A moment later, in pajamas and a wine-colored robe, Yuri answered her knock.

“I've been trying to reach you all day,” she said.

He rubbed at his eyes, yawned and brought himself further awake. He said, “Is something wrong?”

First, she told him about the prints she had found in the snow that morning.

“They came in the house?” he asked, incredulous.

“I saw the prints leading from the bonfire to the back door,” she said. “They didn't lead away again.”

“The locks must be changed,” he said. That uneasy look was on his face again. Was it a mask, or really a true expression of dread?

“Can it be done tomorrow?” she asked.

“Or the day after,” Yuri said.

“It had better be tomorrow.”

“Why?” he asked, stepping forward, looking closely at her. She supposed that he had just noticed the color of her face, the smudges under her wide-open eyes.

“They've been in the house tonight,” she said.

His voice dropped into a harsh whisper. “How do you know?”

“Come along,” she said.

At her door, she stepped back and shined the light on the blood circle and the white Latin words which had both been smeared by her hand.

“When did this happen?”

“Half an hour ago.”

“How did you find it?”

“They knocked on my door when they were done,” she said.

“They were that bold about it?” he asked. His shoulders were hunched forward, as if he expected to be struck from behind. Katherine looked behind them; there wasn't anyone there.

“That bold,” she affirmed. “They even knocked twice when they thought I might not have heard them the first time.”

“It's been smeared—”

“I didn't know it was blood,” she said. “I tried to wipe it off before I found out.”

“I see.”

They stood together in darkness, looking at the Satanic symbols caught in the circle of the flashlight's beam. The marks appeared to swell larger and larger as the only focus of attention in the corridor, until she angrily swung the light away from them and pointed it at the floor.

“Well?” she said.

“Well?”

“You are the expert on these things,” she said.

She knew that she sounded angry, but she could not control the tone of her voice very well, not at that moment. She either had to give in to the anger or the fear — and she preferred that her voice sound tight and coldly furious rather than shaky with anxiety. Besides, as far as she knew, Yuri might have been the one who painted the symbols on her door. His sleepy-eyed confusion when he opened his door could very well have been carefully staged. She had suspected him of playing a role long before this, though she hadn't been able to determine his purpose. Had his professed fear of demons and such only been a decoy to prejudice her against considering him one of the enemy when the time came to choose sides?

“Expert?” he said, “Hardly that. I have seen things, learned many odd facts, but—”

“You're the closest to an expert in Owlsden,” she said. “You ought to have some idea of why they broke into the house just to paint symbols on my door.”

“Partly to frighten you,” he said.