Jeanette looked up at him. “Malcolm,” she told him, “was Beatrice’s baby.”
Chapter Thirty-five
Ryan was getting desperate. He could not find a way out of the house. Doors and windows refused to open; glass refused to break, even with heavy pewter candlesticks tossed at it. What kind of spell had been cast over this place? Were the forces of the room so powerful that they could trap him inside forever?
Ryan shook the knob on the kitchen door again. It didn’t budge.
It wasn’t fair! Others had gotten out. He’d watched from the window as Linda and Paula and some other woman ran across the yard with those two bratty kids toward the barn. How did they get out? How come whatever forces were controlling this house took pity on them and not on him?
Because of what we did.
He tried to block the thought from his mind, but was unsuccessful.
When you tamper with the lottery, when you don’t follow the rules, you are punished.
Ernest Young had learned that lesson when he’d run away, only to be massacred with his family in their beds.
And now Ryan’s family was being massacred.
Running from room to room in the house, he had found the mutilated bodies of his father and sister. It was easy to think they were being punished for their deception. But Dean was dead, too. Ryan understood that, in the end, they were all fair game. They were all just sport for the bloodlust of the thing that was tormenting them.
He tried the French doors that led out onto the terrace. But again they were sealed shut. In frustration, he slammed his fist against one of the panes of glass, but the glass might as well have been iron. He just bruised his knuckles.
A short time before, he’d had a glimmer of hope. A woman and a man had come through the front door. The door had opened easily from the outside, allowing them to enter. Ryan had been watching from an alcove; he had become so paranoid that he trusted no one, so he stayed very quiet, not revealing himself. After the man and woman had passed down the hallway, Ryan ran to the door, hopeful that it was now open. But it had reverted to immobility. He burst into tears.
Now he prowled from room to room, feeling like a caged animal. His mind no longer thought logically or critically. He just wanted to get out.
And then the laughter began.
High-pitched and shrill. Like a child’s. The laughter came from everywhere, as if an unseen audience were watching his crazy antics and finding them all too amusing.
“Stop!” Ryan cried, wandering into the foyer. “Stop laughing at me!”
But the laughter just went on. The sound assaulted him, almost like spears being tossed at him from all sides of the room. Each gale of laughter pierced him, hurt him. Ryan cried out in pain.
“Stop!” he shouted. “Please stop!”
He fell to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears, but the laughter only increased in volume and intensity.
“Kill me! Take me!” Ryan cried. “Just stop laughing at me!”
That brought about even more hysterical laughter.
Ryan collapsed into a ball, sobbing. Terrified, broken, he pissed his pants.
All around him the room filled up with laughter. It seemed to Ryan that he’d never hear anything else again except the laughter. He fell over onto his side, reduced to a blubbering fool on a floor covered with blood and urine.
Chapter Thirty-six
From the foyer came the sound of laughter.
Carolyn faced Howard Young with new urgency. “You must tell us!” she demanded. “You must tell us everything you know!”
The old man just sat there, yellow tears rolling down the flaking parchment of his cheeks.
Douglas had peered out the door. “Ryan’s out there,” he reported back to the group. “I can hear his voice.”
“Mr. Young,” Carolyn said. “Is Jeanette correct? Is all this being done by Beatrice’s baby?”
Slowly, the old man nodded his head.
“How is that possible?” Carolyn asked. “For a mere baby…”
“Malcolm has learned a great deal in his eighty years in that room,” Jeanette explained. “He has learned to mimic our speech, our words… He has even learned how to make letters on a wall.”
Carolyn stared at her, dumbstruck.
“He’s learned other things as well,” Jeanette continued. “He’s learned about the ways in which people seek revenge.”
“Dear God,” Carolyn said.
“But at his heart, Malcolm is still just a baby, with a baby’s emotions. He is angry and frustrated and frightened.”
“All of this,” Carolyn said, the full realization hitting her, “is merely a baby’s tantrum.”
“That’s right,” Jeanette said. “That is an excellent way of putting it.”
“How do we stop him then?” Douglas asked.
Jeanette had turned once again to the old man in the chair. “Uncle Howard,” she said, “you must tell us everything that happened eighty years ago in this house. There could still be time to do what is needed to end this!”
“Please, Mr. Young,” Carolyn begged. “You want this terrible curse to end. I know you do.”
Douglas had moved over to confront his uncle again. “No more deaths, Uncle Howie. How many more can you tolerate? My father, and indirectly my mother…and just today, Dean and Philip and Chelsea. And now Ryan is out there begging for his life! Please, Uncle Howie! Tell us what you know.”
The old man’s watery eyes looked at each of them in turn.
“All right,” he said brokenly. “I will tell you everything.”
EIGHTY YEARS EARLIER
Chapter Thirty-seven
Howard Young was not yet eighteen, but already he was a big, strapping fellow, a solid six feet, the tallest and handsomest of the five Young brothers. Of course, Jacob and Timothy were still just sixteen and thirteen, respectively. They might eventually pass Howard in height. But everyone agreed that none of the boys quite matched Howard in looks. His fair hair, wavy and thick, crowned a perfectly symmetrical face, defined by crystal blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a square jaw with a cleft chin.
Howard understood his appeal. He had seen the look in Beatrice’s eyes the first day she came to work for them. She had paused, looking up at him from under her long dark lashes. It was a look Howard had returned. Beatrice Swan was exquisite. A year older than Howard, she had mysterious dark eyes and luxurious black hair. Her breasts were full and round, and her smile hinted at pleasures to come. It wasn’t long before Howard discovered just what those pleasures were.
Slipping upstairs after the household was asleep, Howard knew she’d be waiting for him. The little alcove in the attic with the bay window had become their secret meeting place. It was here that Beatrice had given herself to him-the first time Howard had known the full joy of making love to a woman. His heart quickened as he climbed the steep steps to the attic.
She turned to him as he entered, her smile bright, her eyes glowing, her arms outstretched. He fell into them, reveling in her sweet fragrance. He kissed her neck, her hair, her lips. His hands moved up her body, cupping her soft breasts.
“Oh, Howard, I do love you so,” Beatrice whispered, her lips on his ear.
Did he love her in return? Howard thought perhaps he did, though he had never been in love before, so he had no idea what it might feel like. Certainly he loved the way she felt, and the secret things she did to his body.
“You will be the greatest of all your father’s sons,” she said. “I know this. I can see things in my mind. It is a gift. My mother had it, too. You will surpass all of them.”
Beatrice knew of the rivalry among Howard and his brothers. He had confided in her, telling her how they had always competed, ever since they were children. Whether it be in polo or foxhunting or swimming or lacrosse, the five Young brothers were always trying to one-up each other. It was his eldest brother Douglas whom Howard envied the most. Douglas would inherit this house someday; he would be master here. Douglas stood to take the biggest share of their father’s fortune. He had already married, to a woman who was an heiress herself, and produced four grandchildren for their father, the latest being a baby girl, Cynthia. All four could now lay claim to the family wealth, dividing up what might otherwise have been left over for Howard. Many were the times that he rued being born the third son.