The Dark of Summer

here before her had not gone deep into the cave either, but had stood just inside the entrance, looking out. Though this seemed to prove the woman had been waiting there, looking up the slope, expecting to see someone at the top, it was not proof of a ghost — or of a hoaxer.

Gwyn stood there, near where the woman had stood, trying to see what value this discovery had.

None.

Even if she showed Uncle Will these tracks, what would they prove? That someone had been in the cave before her? So what?

She looked down at the footprints again, shivered.

Wasn't it possible that — yes, even likely that — if she did go to fetch her Uncle Will for him to take a look at the footprints, that they would be gone when the two of them returned from the manor house, that where prints were now, only clean sand would be then? Or perhaps, if she still saw the prints — might he be unable to see them, just as he had been unable to see the broom marks on the sand, yesterday? That would be conclusive proof that she was not the victim of a hoax, but was indeed losing her mind.

And that would be intolerable, that abrupt closing off of all alternatives. Instead of confirming the slim possibility of a hoax — for whatever reasons — it would amount to nothing more than another carefully positioned brick in the rapidly growing edifice of her madness.

For a moment, she considered going deeper into the cave to see if it might lead anywhere in particular, but she finally decided against any further explorations. Clearly, the barefoot woman had not gone any farther than this; therefore, nothing beyond this point could interest Gwyn or help her solve the overall puzzle of the ghost. Besides, she had no flashlight and no way of marking her route so that she could retrace her steps in the event that she became lost in the twisting corridors of stone.

Dejected, she started out of the cave and almost overlooked the flash of white near the cavern mouth. Catching sight of it out of the corner of her eye, she turned and, her breath held at the back of her throat, recognized a scrap of flimsy, white cloth. It was the same fluffy fabric from which the dead girl's gown had been made. This scrap had caught on the jagged edge of a rock and been torn loose, apparently without the dead girl being aware of it. The breeze caught it and stirred it like a tuft of white hair on an old man's head.

Gwyn touched it, reverently, as if it were a sacred relic, pried it free of the jagged stone and held it in the palm of her hand.

This was real. She could touch it, feel it, run the flimsy stuff through her fingers. With this to show Uncle Will, she could get some help in discovering who was…

Then again, how did she know that the scrap was real? Hadn't she felt the dead girl touch her, and hadn't she actually wrestled with the ghost? If she could hallucinate something as seemingly real as that, couldn't she hallucinate this piece of cloth?

And even if it were genuine, what did it prove? That someone had been in this cave, had lost a piece of garment on a jagged rock? That didn't mean the “someone” was a ghost, a hoaxer pretending to be her dead sister. The cloth might have come to be here two days ago, or it might have hung on the rock for a week, a month. Indeed, it might have been here so long that the sun had bleached it white, though it had once been a different color. In short, it was proof of nothing.

She looked around for something more, anything more, but she found only sand and stone — and possibly footprints.

Sighing, she jammed the white scrap into the pocket of her shorts. The climb up the steep slope outside of the cave was exceedingly difficult and required every last bit of her strength, though she would normally have made it in a few seconds, with little effort. She kept falling to her knees and sliding back, the treacherous sand shifting like a liquid beneath her. In the end, she was forced to go up on her hands and knees, clawing frantically for each foot she gained. By the time she had reached the surface of the beach, she was gasping for breath, shaking like a storm-blown leaf, and coated with perspiration which dripped from her brow and streaked across her face.

She toddled across the beach, to the water's edge, and sat there where she felt it would be cooler. Her head ached and seemed to spin around and around, as if it were coming loose. In a while, the sensation of movement ceased, though the headache remained.

When she felt rested enough, she got up and started back toward Barnaby Manor, her rubbery legs twisting and bending but somehow managing to support her. Each step increased her weariness, brought a deep yearning for sleep more intense than that which she had suffered in her previous illness, so intense, in fact, that she could not understand it. She didn't know, of course, that she had been drugged heavily, twice, in the last twenty-four hours, and that a residue of those drugs still worked within her, like a quiet little fist.

By the time she reached the bottom of the stone steps that lead up the cliffside to the Barnaby estate, Gwyn was drawing her breath in long, shuddering sobs, bone weary, fuzzy-eyed. She sat down, letting her head fall forward, her arms folded across her knees. She didn't see how she could manage to climb clear to the top.

However, the sun was setting, bringing a shadowed twilight to the empty beach, and night would soon lay its black glove over everything. She didn't want to be down here when darkness fell, no matter whether her ghost was a real ghost, an hallucination or a hoaxer. When she had steadied her heartbeat and regained her breath, she got up and began the dangerous ascent.

The first few steps weren't bad.

The sixth seemed twice as high as it should be.

The seventh was a major obstacle.

After that, her strength fell away, and the steps rose before her like a series of mountains.

Darkness was falling more rapidly than she'd anticipated — or she was taking an inordinately long time to make the climb — leaving pools of shadow on the steps, so that she sometimes misjudged where the edge of one of them lay. A chill draught moved down through the natural flue, bringing goose pimples to her flesh and giving her the odd sensation that a giant lay above, breathing down on her.

The twentieth step seemed to slip away from her, like the moving riser on an escalator; she lost her balance, felt herself tilting backward, a long hard fall behind her…

Desperately, she flung herself forward, trying to regain her precarious but precious balance. She over- compensated for the backward tilt, and went painfully to her knees, clutching at the steps as if she thought they would shift out from under her.

Darkness pressed in.

The draught grew chillier.

In a while, she started up again, staying on her knees this time, moving ahead as she had on that slope of sand by the caves. This, in the end, proved the wisest course, for she finally reached the lawn above without further injury and no more close calls.

She lay on the grass, catching her breath, then got up and, crying slightly at her own weakness, walked toward the welcome lights of Barnaby Manor…

“I told you a walk wasn't what you needed,” Elaine said, helping her into bed.

Gwyn slid down under the sheets and lay back against the pillows, thankful for the smell of clean linen and the enveloping softness. “I see, now, you were right,” Gwyn said.

“Dr. Cotter said you should rest.”

“I'm awfully tired.”

“What would you like for supper?” Elaine asked.

“Nothing.”

“You've got to eat.”

“I'm not hungry, Aunt Elaine.”

The older woman made a face and said, “But you've hardly had anything to eat all day!”

“Breakfast.”

“One meal isn't—”

Gwyn said, “But it was an enormous breakfast; it filled me up; I've not been hungry since, really.” She wanted to stretch, but didn't have the strength to lift her arms. She yawned instead and said, “All I want to do is sleep, get my strength back.”

“If you're sure you're not hungry.”

“I'm sure.”