Black Christmas Read online

  Jess smiled at him wanly and said, “I like your friend, Chris. He’s efficient but he’s decent, too.”

  “Ken? Yeah, he’s very special. Ought to be something other than a cop. No, maybe we should have more cops like him, and fewer guys like Nash. Don’t worry, Jess.”

  “Thanks. But I’m the one who should be telling that to you. How’s Mr. Harrison taking it?”

  “He’s like a brick over there. But he’s pretty shook, you can tell.”

  They were interrupted by Fuller’s voice once more. “Once we get to the other side, we’ll start working our way over to the college. Now, if anyone finds anything, send someone out right away to tell the others. Call out as loud as you can and get word back to me. All right? Let’s go.”

  The snowmobiles fanned out as the dogs, let off their leashes, leaped off and the whole search party, reluctantly at first, then swiftly, surged forward with much shouting from the searchers and continual yelping from the dogs. The snow had stopped and the moon once more made its appearance.

  On the other side of the park, on the college campus, the same moon silently silhouetted the sorority house on the hill. Finally the silence was broken by the crunch of footsteps in the new snow and a figure moved out of the shadows and squatted down against a tree, watching the house for a few seconds. He sighed, looked at his watch, rubbed his forehead thoughtfully and then Peter Smythe stood up, stared at the dark house for a few more minutes before he started to walk, the sound of his footsteps receding in the crisp snow.

  Upstairs in the attic, Claude wandered through an array of trunks and boxes, occasionally looking up at the window through which the moonlight poured. Sitting in the rocking chair was a human form and Claude leaped onto its lap. The chair moved but the form didn’t, even when Claude purred and rubbed against Clare Harrison’s body lovingly. Her face stared out blankly through the piece of plastic as her body continued to rock.

  Downstairs, unaware of Claude’s whereabouts, Mrs. MacHenry, dressed in a wool suit and matching hat, obviously ready for traveling, sat at a small desk in the living room sipping on a drink as she penned a note to the few girls who had not yet left the house for the Christmas vacation.

  When she had finished she signed it with a flourish and then began to reread it to herself in a low mumbling monotone, standing and pacing the room and hall as she read.

  “Dear girls. (Should have dotted that ‘i’, they’ll think I’m illiterate) Mrs. Mac is deeply sorry (Where’s that drink? Ah, there you are.) but she has to go away tonight. I know I am obligated to stay until all of you girls have left the house for the holidays, but (Christ, I’ve got lousy penmanship) I’m sure you will understand that this is the only time I could get a ticket to go for Christmas at my sister’s.

  “I’m sure that Clare will show up. (Like hell I am.) Please say goodbye to Mr. Harrison for me. Merry Christmas to all of you.

  “Love, Mrs. Mac.

  “There, that ought to hold the little . . . Uh-oh.”

  She went back to the desk and picked up the pen, adding a line which she read aloud as she wrote. “P.S. I still cannot find Claude. Could you keep an eye out for him? Mr. Reynolds said that he would feed him over the holidays.”

  She waved the letter in the air a few times to dry the ink then took a piece of Scotch tape from a roll on the desk, folded the note and taped it to the front of the Christmas tree. Glancing at her watch she saw that it was late so she hurried out into the hall and rapidly climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor.

  Above her, in the attic, a rasping voice prayed aloud with only the indifferent Claude and the no longer breathing Clare Harrison as audience.

  “Oh, God! No! Please! Please, stop me! Please! I don’t want to do it. Won’t you stop me, please? I can’t help myself.”

  There was an ominous silence and then the sound of a cat meowing. The person who had just spoken looked around but Claude was nowhere in sight and the hideously contorted face of the girl in the plastic bag watched mutely as his body heaved from its crouching position beside the bed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The cab would be there any minute, she told herself as she bustled about the small bedroom adding last minute items to the second of two bags, the first of which was already closed and standing ready by the door. Scurrying from place to place she threw things helter-skelter into the bag while she kept one ear cocked for the sound of the doorbell which would mean that the taxi driver was waiting outside in the cold, no doubt impatiently stamping his foot.

  Although he had not arrived she already anticipated his annoyance and said aloud, “Let him wait.”

  Next to the open suitcase was the box that contained the nightgown the girls had given her as a Christmas present. She opened it and took out the negligee, holding it up in front of her. Then beginning to hum she waltzed to the mirror, spun around and bowed to her image in imitation of her once upon a time vaudeville act.

  Remembering the hour she stopped as quickly as she started, tossed the negligee into the suitcase and hurriedly closed it. Just as she finished locking the snaps she heard the honking of a car horn from in front of the house.

  She ran to the window, looked out and saw the taxi waiting there with no driver in sight. There was another call from the horn before she released the curtain.

  “All right,” she said, “goddamn it, I hear you. Can’t even come to the front door? I’m supposed to carry these damn bags myself. What’s the world coming to. Jesus. Lazy bum, afraid of a little cold air?”

  She picked up the bag from the bed, crossed the room, turned off the light, reached down and gathered up the other suitcase and went into the hall still muttering to herself about the poor quality of service as compared to when she was a young lady.

  She was about to go down the stairs when she was stopped by a sound much softer and far closer than that of the taxi horn. Turning around she called out, “Claude!”

  Then she put the two bags down, listened again before she yelled, “Where are you? Now you stop hiding like this!” Heading back down the hall away from the stairs to the main floor she felt herself getting angry for, no doubt, the driver had the meter already running.

  “Goddamn it, Claude, you’re going to make me late and cost me a fortune!” She listened at Clare’s room, then Barbara’s, but there was no sound. “Come and say goodbye to Mamma, Claude. You little—!”

  At the end of the hall were the stairs leading to the attic trapdoor and she stopped there, listening as the cat meowed from above.

  “How the hell did you get up there?” she called.

  Climbing the steps she pushed the trapdoor with her hand as the taxi driver started to honk his horn impatiently. Stopping she turned and yelled to the area below her, “Oh, shut up! You can wait.” Turning back she pushed harder saying softly, “Here, Claude.”

  The door creaked eerily as she pushed it all the way open and climbed a few more steps so that her head was above the attic floor. Suddenly she shrieked and leaned down to look at where she had torn a stocking on a nail.

  “Damn it, Claude, look what you’ve made me do!” Looking back up she called, “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

  The attic was dark except for the moonlight and she, because she was hardly above ground level and because it was not likely for Claude to be above her, did not look up or she might have seen in the half-light something swaying just above her head.

  Squinting as she tried to adjust her eyes to the darkness she muttered, “I’ve got to clean this mess up one of these days. Come on, Claude. I can’t see a damned thing up here. Here, kitty.”

  Outside the horn honked again making her jump. “Dammit! Here, Claude. Here, kitty! Goddamn it, Claude, I’m gonna have you fixed.”

  She looked up and stopped speaking, a puzzled look coming over her face as she saw what was sitting in the rocker just beyond the trap door. Her expression changed to one of horror as she realized that it was Clare Harrison and then as she stumbled back in sh
ock she heard a loud crash and she turned her head up just in time to see the noose of the rope that had dangled above her tumbling down toward her.

  Terrified and helpless she couldn’t move, couldn’t open her mouth to scream as the rope pulled taut and her struggling body was jerked upward toward the rafters.

  The taxi driver had finally come to the front door and he was standing there ringing the doorbell insistently as she was slowly strangled to death.

  Several times he called out, “Hey! Is anybody there?” But there was only an answering silence and finally he shrugged and walked back to his cab as the trapdoor was creakily lowered on its rusty hinges.

  Had the cab driver looked to the attic he might have seen silhouetted in the window a form watching him as he got back into his taxi after curiously looking at the lower part of the big, silent house. Once in the cab he turned on the ignition and the lights, backed up and after looking back once more, pulled away.

  The figure in the window was breathing heavily, a sound that was almost deafening. The breathing was interspersed with shrieks of rage as though the person to whom the voice belonged was going to attack and destroy the entire attic.

  Mrs. Mac’s body hung lifelessly until it was suddenly smashed aside, arcing broadly across the room.

  It was as though there were a ferocious, trapped animal in the cage of the attic, clawing and screaming to get out.

  The animal slammed up against a wall and, careening through the cramped attic space with an agonized wail, knocked over a chair and broke the rocking horse with almost super-human strength. It crashed viciously into a corner and there was the sound of breaking glass followed by gagging, retching, hissing and then growls. Its body shook on the floor and the growls turned to whimpers and finally to the simple sound of a man crying.

  The beams of the powerful snowmobile headlights flared off of the crisp, white snow. Between them, a long line of people trudged wearily forward across the park. The air was bitter and many of the people looked up from time to time, envious of the warmth and comfort seemingly offered from the lights of the houses that dotted the periphery of the search area.

  Jess crossed past several of the searchers and found Chris Hayden. She said to him, “Hey, I’m going to have to split.” Phyl, who was on the far side of Chris, asked her why and she answered, “Peter’s coming over to the house and I can’t miss him. I’m late already. Besides, there’s more people here than are needed. We were tripping over each other over in my section.”

  Mr. Harrison saw the three young people whom he knew and joined them. “My God,” he said, “it’s cold.”

  “Yeah, I’ll be going home very soon, too. Jess was just saying she had an appointment, Mr. Harrison.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jess said to him but he held up his hand.

  “No need to apologize. I appreciate your concern.”

  “I’m freezing,” Phyllis said. “But I’ll stay with Chris and Mr. Harrison.”

  “We’ll let you know if anything happens,” Chris said to Jess.

  She said goodbye to all of them and then broke away from the group and ran off toward the snowmobile and the street nearby, her ears echoing to the sound of unknown voices calling out “Janice! Clare.”

  Not long after Jess had left, a jarring scream pierced the frosty air of the park. As two boys ran up a horrified girl stood staring at the ground. One of the boys started running hysterically through the woods calling for Lieutenant Fuller while the other, more collected, stayed beside the trembling girl and called out, “Hey! Get someone over here!”

  He looked down again and that was his undoing. Quickly he turned away from the girl and retched behind a tree as others began to arrive. One by one they looked down and then in sickening disgust looked away.

  Standing in front of his car drinking coffee, Mr. Harrison heard the boy’s voice and the excited responses from the crowd. He gave those near him a hopeful look and ran off into the park following the clamor.

  Phyl and Chris were not too far from the noise so that they arrived at the scene among the first. “Don’t look, Phyl,” Chris said to her but it was too late.

  Still sitting in the back seat of the squad car, Mrs. Quaife saw people running past toward the park area. Hearing the shouting she looked around in alarm and then hastily climbed out of the car. Outside, one of the policemen took her by the arm and tried to get her to go back into the car.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Quaife. Why don’t you just wait here? We’ll let you know if there’s something—”

  Hysterically she pulled away from him. “No! Let me alone. Don’t try to stop me!” Free of him she started to move in the direction of the crowd calling out, “They found Janice! Didn’t they? They found my baby! I know it!”

  He got hold of her arm again but her strength was too much for him.

  “Let me go, do you hear! Where is she?”

  Reaching out she grabbed a man who was rushing past her. “Where is she? Tell me!” When he didn’t answer she let him go and ran off into the park, screaming, “Tell me where she is!”

  She almost collided with Mr. Harrison who, too, was running in the direction of all the noise and light calling out, “Where are you?”

  Several voices at once spoke to him and he made the right turn so that he came up just behind Chris, looking ill, and Phyl with her head averted, both of their faces registering shock and revulsion.

  Mrs. Quaife pushed through them and into the center of the group, still calling out her daughter’s name. When she reached the spot she stopped and looked down, the sound dying on her lips as the full impact of what lay on the ground hit her. Her face contorted in agony and she screamed once before she fainted.

  Back at the house Clare Harrison’s body sat still in the rocker only a few feet from where that of Mrs. MacHenry hung tautly from the rope tied to the rafters. Claude was not about and there was no sound in the attic.

  Finally, from below, cutting harshly into the silence, could be heard the jangling of the telephone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The phone rang over and over again in the empty house. Then it stopped and the hall was quiet. Seconds later it began to ring again and there was the noise of a key being turned in a lock, the loud slam of a door being shut and a mittened hand reached out and picked up the receiver.

  Her cheeks red and her breathing labored from the cold, Jess put the receiver to her mouth and ear.

  “Hello.”

  Struggling with her coat, trying to get it off, she at once realized who it was on the other end of the line.

  This time the caller’s voice was loud in contrast to the obscene whisper of the previous messages. Some of the sounds she recognized as almost human but most of them were growls and wheezes that could only have come from some wounded animal. The caller’s psychotic state was such, she realized, that he was in the throes of a horrible schizophrenia which he could not help, and for a brief moment she almost pitied him as he spoke alternately to her and played out several roles with himself from the traumatic past of his life.

  “Hello,” she said again, trying to control her anger and fear. “Look, who is this?”

  Her question was answered by moaning which switched abruptly to a little girl crying and building quickly to a scream of agony, a gasping for breath and then once more the man’s voice, soft this time, pleading.

  “Help me! Stop me! Please! Oh, God, please! Please stop me. I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t stop.”

  “Stop what? What are you doing?” Maybe, she told herself, I can help him. Talk to him, try to get him to go to the hospital.

  When he didn’t answer her question but began to sob she said as gently as possible, trying to keep the note of fear from her own voice, “What do you want? Why are you doing this?”

  For an answer there was a choking, rasping sound, then a woman’s voice, high-pitched, nearly hysterical with crying said, “Now, look here! I know he just isn’t capable of such a thing. It must have be
en, maybe she’s lying. He wouldn’t do that. Why he doesn’t even know the difference.”

  Trying to break through, Jess asked, “Who are you? For God’s sake, what are you doing?”

  The woman’s voice began to cry afresh, sobbing an incoherent answer and then it was replaced by a man, a harsh, ugly, strong voice which said, “You bitch! I’ll fix you!”

  Frightened, for she was not sure to whom he spoke, Jess said, “Stop it! Please stop it! Please stop calling here.”

  Gasping, wheezing, the little girl crying, all of the sounds mixed disgustingly together almost nauseated her. Finally confused, angry and fearful, she hung up the telephone, shaking her head, “Jesus Christ!”

  She hurried down the hall to the bottom of the stairs and shouted up, “Mrs. Mac? Hey, Mrs. Mac! Are you home? We got another one of those calls. Hello, up there? Are you home?”

  In the attic on the third floor, Mrs. Mac did not hear her so only empty silence greeted Jess’s call.

  When she got no response from above, Jess finished taking off her coat while she walked back through the kitchen. She hung it up in the dark hall and looked at the telephone, half expecting it to ring again. Very agitated, she went to it and quickly picked it up, dialed a number. Her back was to the stairway as she dialed or she might have fled from the house in terror for a dark form was moving slowly down the stairs in her direction. She finished fingering the number and heard it ringing on the other end. A voice answered and she said in a quavering voice, “Hello? Yes, I’d like to report that I’ve been getting obscene phone calls and I want to know what can be done about it? Yes, all right I’ll hold. I’m sure you’re busy but this is important. Yes, I’ll hold, but only for a minute.”

  Tapping her foot impatiently she looked about the hall, finally turned just as the form reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the half-light.