Late at Night by William Schoell Read Free Book Online Page A

anything at all. Nothing.” She shook her head for emphasis. “The men—Mr. Thesinger, and I think it was Hans—stayed in the living room while Mrs. Plushing and Joanne and I tried to get Emily dressed and into her room. She kept saying something, ‘I saw blood. I was bleeding. Blood all over me.’ Something like that.”
    “ ‘There’s blood running down me. Why can’t you see it?’ ”
    Margaret Proust Plushing stood in the kitchen doorway, a steaming dish of red cabbage in her hands. “That’s just what she said.” Margaret repeated deliberately: ” ‘There’s blood running down me, Mrs. Plushing. Why can’t you see it?’ ” Margaret came forward and put the dish down on one end of the table. “Poor deluded girl. She was having fits, hallucinations. That’s all I can make of it. Says she saw a strange face in the mirror when she came out of the shower, something, jumped out at her through the fog on the glass, and then suddenly all this blood was spurting out of her skin, just running down over her breasts and arms and stomach.”
    “Bon appetit,” Anton said, raising his wine glass.
    If Anton’s sarcastic remark had been meant to stop Mrs. Plushing, it did not have the desired effect. “She was out of her mind,” Margaret continued, her face grim and stony and concerned. “Didn’t know where to go, her right from her left. Just started screaming for help and running all over the place. It took three of us to get her settled, that’s for certain.”
    Mr. Everson seemed to have at last been jogged out of his trance. “Will she be all right, Margaret?” he asked the cook. “Will Emily be all right? There won’t be a way off this island until Monday when the boat comes back.” Lynn looked up at the sound of his voice, startled, as if she’d been awakened from a deep sleep.
    “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Margaret replied. “We put her to bed, gave her a sleeping pill.”
    “What was all this about blood?” Lynn asked.
    “There was none,” Margaret added firmly. “None whatsoever. She wasn’t bleeding at all. There were no injuries or marks anywhere on her body. We made sure of that. Now let me get you fine people the rest of your dinner.” She walked back into the kitchen, while John passed around the red cabbage.
    Cynthia sat back in her chair and touched her lips. “What could have made her think she was bleeding?”
    Gloria looked a little pale. “All this talk about blood at the dinner table,” she said. “Can’t we talk about something pleasant? Like wine.” She tapped her empty glass with a fingernail. “Or food?”
    “Well, I guess all the stories are true,” Jerry began to say, idly scratching his arm and sighing. Gloria looked at him enthusiastically, glad that someone was finally changing the subject.
    “I guess this place is haunted after all.”
    “Oh, Jerry. Really. “ Gloria put her hand over her eyes.
    “Well, the girl did say she saw something in the mirror,” Jerry argued. “A strange face or something. That sounds pretty spooky to me.”
    Cynthia rubbed away the goosebumps on her arms. “And here I am hoping she was one of these religious whackos who develop—what do they call it?—stigmata, where they start to bleed like Jesus Christ. That might explain the blood she thought she saw. Usually it turns out that these religious fanatics who see things and have visions and talk to God are just repressed women who need a good—”
    “I have an awful headache,” Lynn said, standing up suddenly. “I think I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and lie down for awhile.” She turned to John. “Tell Margaret to save me something for dinner. I’ll eat later.”
    Her guests performed the obligatory motions, expression concern, and Lynn went up th® staircase to her room.
    Everson emitted a heavy sigh and leaned forward on his elbows in a show of resignation. He offered no explanation for Lynn’s behavior. Muttering something about seeing what was