Third in the group was Roger Stanbridge, the recent arrival in the
homestead. He was in his thirties, a handsome man, whose aristocratic features
were offset by his friendly smile. Along with the Stanbridge nose, Roger owned a
large shock of hair and his face had the fullness that Gustave's lacked. Perhaps
it was the sight of Gustave that worried Roger, on the basis that he might some
day come to resemble his shrunken elder brother.
It was Roger who arose and extended his hand to Torrance. The greeting was
warm, yet the doctor noted that the hand itself was icy.
"I'm glad you came, doctor," said Roger. "You see -"
"You see nothing!" interrupted Jennifer in a sharp, but low-pitched tone.
"In this house you only hear. The dead have not yet chosen to speak, though they
give their messages to me!"
Ending with a stabbing laugh, Jennifer gestured to an instrument on the low
table before her. The object was like a tiny table itself, a heart-shaped
contrivance mounted on three small wheels. From its center, a pencil pointed
downward to a sheet of paper that bore numerous scrawls. On one side were blank
sheets, on the other a small stack of papers inscribed with scribbles.
"Yes, I've been hearing things," admitted Roger. "Footsteps upstairs and in
the kitchen. Whispers through the doorways. Gustave noticed them, too, but won't
admit he heard them. As for Jennifer, she claims she hears everything, but all
the while she's been busy with that ouija board of hers."
Jennifer inserted a scoffing laugh.
"Ouija board!" The woman's voice was contemptuous. "Such things are for
children. It is silly to push a pointer from one letter to another and have it
spell out messages. This is a planchette."
She pointed to the heart-shaped thing. With an obliging nod, Dr. Torrance
went over and placed his hands on one side of the roller device, while Jennifer
pressed the other. The little stand began to twist between them, its pencil
making new scribbles.
"You see, Jennifer?" Torrance raised his hands with a depreciating gesture.
"Only scrawls, nothing more. The planchette does not work with me."
"Because you are not psychic," snapped Jennifer. "Alone, I have received
messages all evening. Messages from Donald."
Setting her eyes in a hard glare, Jennifer turned them directly upon
Gustave, who shifted uneasily in his chair. Catching Torrance's glance, Gustave
sprang to his feet and raised two scrawny hands, both clenched.
"As Heaven is my witness, doctor!" Gustave's voice rose to a scream. "I had
nothing to do with Donald's death! I respected him as my older brother -"
"And you envied him," inserted Jennifer with her sharp cackle, "because he
owned this mansion. Donald died because you wanted him to do so. He told me
that, again tonight."
Waving the written papers from beside the planchette, Jennifer thrust them
close to Gustave's face. Savagely, the dull-faced man snatched the papers and
threw them in the fire. Instead of duplicating her brother's rage, Jennifer
turned with a pleased chuckle as though she had won another argument.
SILENCE followed as Jennifer stalked across the frayed carpet and entered
an arched passage under the stairs. Her footsteps sounded on the bare floor and
dwindled into the hollow depths of the house. Gustave gave a troubled groan.
