possibly convince a man that he is suffering a delusion?
For a while Randall was nasty, almost ferocious about it, but Dr. Rascob's psychology was brilliant, and he finally soothed the patient. The doctor insisted it was only a temporary mental derangement, definitely curable.
I was not pleased with Dr. Rascob's suggestion that I move in with Randall for a while, but I had no choice. Any man can be a coward, but only an extraordinary man will admit it.
My peace of mind was not improved next morning when I talked with Bixby. The tall, hook-shouldered old fellow had been a butler so long that I don't think he ever had a thought of his own. His mind worked mechanically, turning off and on at his master's wish.
"No, sir, I haven't seen the other people, sir," he told me. "Mr. Bauder likes me to keep close to my own quarters when he don't need me, but I must say, sir, they do make a mess of my kitchen, the new folks."
"How's that?" I snapped. "Randall doesn't use the kitchen."
"Only on parties, sir. We have in the catering people to help us then. But I keep an eye on things, I do, and nothing's like it was since the new ones came."
"You mean the utensils have actually been used?" I said.
"Yes, sir. That they have. I don't rightly think they would move around by themselves."
"You too, Bixby?" I groaned. "Well, I'll be damned!"
This was a new angle. It was too much to believe that two men in a house were suffering the same delusion.
I found Randall moping in the library and dragged him out to breakfast at the local hotel. We sat through the meal scowling at each other.
"Randall, I have a theory," I said suddenly. "Would you mind describing that lady to me—the one who's been haunting you?"
His face brightened. "It's a pleasure! She would be about shoulder high to you, Avery. Very beautiful, but she has a manner of melting into the scene. Shy, she seems. Her skin is white as—as a ghost, I guess. Very odd style of make-up she uses, too. I've never seen anything like it; under certain lights it makes the face as radiant as a sunset. And her hair! Well, that's really something out of this world! Instead of pouring down around her shoulders, it flows up from her head like water running up-hill. It's a fountain of gold!"
"Wonderful!" I breathed. "Y'know, Randall, I don't entirely agree with Dr. Rascob. I think the real source of your mystery is that house. Here's my theory: You've lived at the Oaks for six months. This phantom, or whatever it is that you see, is visible only to people who have lived there—who have come under the strange influence of the house! I say the mystery is some illusion—a kind of mirage—created by the house itself!"
Randall clutched suddenly at my hands. "Bixby! I never thought to ask the old boy. What about Bixby? I've told him about these people, but has he seen them—?"
I shook my head. "I asked him this morning. He's seen nothing, but he does complain about misplaced utensils."
"That's it!" Randall was on his feet yanking me up by the shoulders. "You see, Avery. If another man can be aware of it, then it's not in my mind. It's something real—something that lives in that house!"
I looked long at his gleaming, sunken eyes. If there was insanity in them, I couldn't see it.
"I think I'll stick around," I said. "If this girl is as lovely as you say, I'd like to be haunted myself!"
Randall sighed deeply. He squeezed my arms until they ached.
