The Right Hand of Evil
 
 
JOHN SAUL
 
 
 
 
 
BALLANTINE BOOKS • NEW YORK


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 
the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
A Ballantine Book   
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group   
Copyright © 1999 by John Saul   
Excerpt from Nightshade © 2000 by John Saul   
 
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. 
Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of 
Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of 
Canada Limited, Toronto.
 
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
 www.randomhouse.com/BB/
 
Library of Congress Card Number: 99-91530
 
ISBN 0-449-00583-6
 
Manufactured in the United States of America   
 
First Hardcover Edition: June 1999 First Mass Market Edition: May 2000
 
10   987654321


 
 
 
 
FOR ROBB MILLER AND LORI DICKENSON
 
Who persevere through everything, and make the wheels of life turn more 
smoothly.


 
 
Prologue
 
 
Alive. It was still alive. She could feel it inside her. It was moving again, 
twisting and writhing in her belly.
She'd hoped it would die.
Hoped. And prayed. Since the moment she first felt it inside her, she'd fallen 
to her knees, begging God to deliver her from the evil within her—desperate 
prayers that continued through long days and longer nights. Sleep never came, 
for she dared not ever let down her guard, not ever relax her vigilance against 
the evil even for a few seconds of blessed release from the terror. Lying awake 
on dank sheets, listening to the whine of insects beyond the window, how many 
times had she gotten up from her bed in the meanest hours to stand at the 
window, gazing out into the black abyss, wondering if she shouldn't open the 
screen and let the predators in?
Once, she slashed through the mesh with ragged nails, ripping the screen to 
shreds, tearing open her nightgown as if to a lover, presenting her tortured 
body to the horde of tiny creatures that spewed forth from the night to settle 
on her skin in a thick and pulsating scum: clinging to her with piercing barbs; 
miring in the oily sweat that oozed from her; pricking with stinging needles. 
Producing a thrill of pain as she willed them to suck out her blood, and along 
with it, the evil that pervaded her every pore.
But the vileness within her had prevailed, as even against her own will she 
swept the insects away, slammed the window shut, and stood beneath a scalding 
shower for hours in a vain attempt to cleanse herself of the poisons.
She had returned to the bed, cursing herself and the man who lay beside her, but 
most of all cursing the disease that ruled her.
Disease.
Truly, that was what it was: an illness cast upon her in retribution for sins so 
vile that she had repressed even their faintest memory, leaving only the 
corruption inside, the monstrous horror that was metastasizing through her, 
consuming a little more of her every day.
"Dear God, why hast Thou forsaken me?"
The words—the cry of anguish that should have shattered the very air—dribbled 
from her lips like the mewling of a baby, a pitiful, weak sound, but enough to 
drive the life within her wild. It sent her screaming and stumbling from the 
house, where her balance deserted her and she dropped to her knees, skinning 
them on the harsh paving of the driveway. Moaning, she sprawled out, and for the 
tiniest moment of ecstasy thought she might be dying. Then the fury within her 
eased, and after a while her ragged panting mellowed into a rhythmic breath. 
Deliverance was not yet at hand. She struggled back to her feet and stood 
staring at the house.
She had thought it beautiful once, with its high-peaked roof and many gables, 
the broad veranda that wrapped around it with the fullness of a petticoated 
skirt, the shutters and gingerbread that decorated its face like the millinery 
of an age gone by. Now, though, she saw the fancywork for what it was: a veil 
that only barely covered the wickedness that lay within; a mask peeling back to 
reveal the slatternly face of a whore.
A whore like me.
The words rose unbidden from the depths of her subconscious, in a choking sob.
The evil within her tested its strength, and the woman's body convulsed.
She staggered forward, driven by pain. At the foot of the steps leading to the 
veranda—and the cavernous rooms beyond—she stopped.
Not inside.
The certain knowledge that something was different, had changed in the seconds 
since she'd fled outside, made her turn away.
Behind.
It's behind the house.
As if under the power of an unseen force, the woman slowly groped her way around 
to the back of the house. The sun, close to its zenith now, beat down on her, 
making her skin tingle and burn in an angry, itching rash that spread scarlet 
from her belly across her torso, down her arms and legs, like claws scraping at 
her from the inside, pushing to tear free from the confines of her body.
Then she saw it.
Her hands rose reflexively to her face as if to blot out the vision before her, 
or even to tear her eyes from her head. Then they dropped away, and she gazed 
unblinking at the specter beneath the ancient magnolia tree that spread its 
limbs over the area beyond the house.
It was the man.
The man she had married.
The man who had brought her to this house.
The man who had delivered the disease upon her.
The man who had lain unconscious beside her as she'd prayed for a salvation she 
knew would never come.
Now he was gone, his body, stripped naked of even the tiniest shred of clothing, 
hung from the lowest branch of the tree, a thick hempen rope knotted tightly 
around his neck.
His head hung at an unnatural angle, and his lifeless eyes were fixed upon her 
with a gaze that chilled the remnants of her soul.
The knife with which he'd slit open his own belly was still clutched in the 
stiffened fingers of his right hand, and his entrails lay in a bloody tangle 
below his dangling feet.
A swarm of flies had already settled on his disemboweled corpse; soon their eggs 
would hatch, releasing millions of maggots to feast upon him.
He had found his escape.
He had left her alone.
Alone with the disease.
Nearly doubled over by a spasm of terror and revulsion, the woman turned away 
and lurched toward the shelter of the house.
Muttered words, unintelligible even to herself, tumbled from her lips. By the 
time she escaped the brilliant noon sun, her entire body was trembling.
Hide.
Got to hide.
Hide from him.
Hide from it.
The corruption inside leaped to life again and, no longer aware of where she was 
or what she was doing, she obeyed the dictates of the foulness within.
A door opened before her, and she stumbled, then fell, plunging into the shadowy 
darkness, feeling blackness surround her, welcoming the release of death.
Her body slammed against the coldness of the cellar floor. She lay still. 
Against her will, her heart once more began to beat, her lungs to breathe.
And now the final agony—the agony she had always known would come.
It arrived as a point of white heat deep within, which spread and burned as it 
raced through her, igniting every nerve in her body into a fiery torment that 
sent a scream boiling up from her throat, instantly followed by a stream of 
vomit.
Every muscle in her body cramped. Limbs thrashing, hands and feet lashing out as 
if at some unseen tormentor, she was engulfed by the growing pain.
"NOOOooo..." The single cry of anguish burst from her, then trailed off into 
hopeless silence.
For a long time she lay unmoving, as the fire withdrew, leaving at last an 
absence of pain. A blank emptiness where the disease had been.
She pulled herself up and gazed at the tiny thing that lay between her legs.
Still covered with bloody tissue, the baby stretched its tiny arms, as if 
reaching toward her.
The woman stared at it, then reached out and picked it up.
She cradled it in her left arm, and with the fingers of her right hand she 
stroked its face.
Then, her eyes still fixed upon the infant, her fingers closed around its neck.
She began to squeeze.
As her fingers tightened, she heard herself say the familiar words that lifted 
her spirit and filled her soul with peace. "Our Father, who art in Heaven ..."
The baby thrashed against her grasp, its fingers instinctively pulling at her 
own.
"...Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us ..."
The baby's tiny fingers fell away from hers; its struggles weakened.
"...Deliver us from evil."
The movements stopped. The infant lay still in her hands. "Amen."
They found her just after sunset.
She was still praying, but of the baby, there was no trace to be found. Indeed, 
it was as if the infant had never existed at all.
She offered no resistance when they lifted her to her feet, none as they led her 
from the house and put her in the ambulance.
As the ambulance drove away, she did not look back.
Her face was serene; she hummed softly to herself.
Deliverance, finally, was hers.


 
 
September


 
 
CHAPTER 1
 
 
Janet Conway felt the first flush of humiliation even before the clerk spoke. 
She was already calculating the amount of cash in her wallet as he picked up the 
phone and listened to what Janet had long ago come to think of as the Voice. The 
Voice was always the same. Perfectly pleasant. Perfectly reasonable. So familiar 
she could easily have limned a sketch of the face that belonged to it—a bland 
face, mostly round, with the kind of soft features that were the most difficult 
to draw, and devoid of any emotion whatsoever. The pronouncement of the Voice 
would be final: "The credit limit is exceeded."
She felt her face redden with embarrassment. You should be used to it by now, 
she told herself. After all these years, you should expect it. Unwilling to meet 
the clerk's eyes, she scanned the meager pile of supplies she'd put into her 
shopping basket: five tubes of paint, three of them shades of blue. She really 
needed only the cobalt. And she could do without two of the brushes, but the 
other one was absolutely necessary.
More necessary than food for tonight?
Her flush deepened, her humiliation turning into anger. Her gaze shifted from 
the artists' supplies on the counter to the young man—no more than two or three 
years older than her twins—who looked even more embarrassed than she felt. "It's 
not your fault," she assured him. And it's not mine, either, she could have 
added, but didn't. "We don't air our dirty laundry in public," her mother's 
voice—stilled by cancer five years ago—echoed in her mind. "I'm sure it's just a 
mix-up," she told the clerk, forcing a smile that she hoped might cover her true 
emotions, and imagining her mother's nod of approval. "I'll pick these things up 
this afternoon." As she strode from the shop and out into the sweltering 
Louisiana morning, she felt the clerk's gaze following her, and knew the young 
man didn't believe she'd be back any more than she did.
Maybe some afternoon next week, but certainly not this one.
She listened to the engine crank on her old Toyota, praying it would catch since 
there was no more chance her Visa card would be accepted at the garage than at 
the art supply store. Finally, she released the breath she hadn't realized she 
was holding as the motor sputtered into reluctant life.
Though the market was her next stop, and she knew the kids would be expecting 
her, she turned the car in the opposite direction, deciding it was more 
important to deal with the credit card issue right now than to put it off until 
Ted came home from work. If he came home, she thought, which was, as always, an 
everyday question in her life.
The Majestic Hotel might have been the pride of Shreveport—as its marquee 
proudly proclaimed—once upon a time, but once upon a time had been a long time 
ago. Parking in front of the ugly brick building in defiance of a GUESTS ONLY 
sign, Janet hesitated in front of the building, taking a last deep breath of 
fresh air against the stale cigarette odor she knew she would find inside, then 
pushing open the dirt-filmed glass door into the lobby. What next? she wondered 
as she stepped over a large tear in the threadbare carpeting. At least the last 
hotel in which Ted worked had managed to keep its lobby looking decent. Where 
would he wind up after this?
She didn't even want to think about it.
As she started toward the assistant manager's office, the desk clerk gave her a 
brief nod. "He ain't in his office, Miz Conway." He cocked his head toward the 
bar. "He's on break." Her anger, which had settled to a low smolder, flared up 
again. The desk clerk's lips twisted into a knowing smirk. "Been on break for 
about an hour now."
Once again Janet heard her mother's remembered voice in her head: "Don't kill 
the messenger just because you don't like the message!" She nodded a barely 
perceptible thanks to the clerk as she veered off toward the bar and a moment 
later stepped into its smoky interior. Half a dozen early drinkers littered the 
length of the bar. A bleached blonde of about forty, encased in a dress two 
sizes too small for her ample body, peered blearily at Janet just long enough to 
satisfy herself that she still had no competition in the room, then returned to 
her seduction of the shabbily dressed men sitting next to her. Apparently, she 
thought, the Majestic couldn't even attract a decent class of hooker anymore.
Spotting her husband on the second stool from the end of the bar, Janet brushed 
by the aging prostitute and took a stance in front of Ted with her arms crossed.
"It happened again," she said, lowering her voice so the bartender couldn't hear 
her. She could tell by Ted's expression that he knew exactly what she was 
talking about. To his credit, he at least didn't try to deny it.
"I ran short of cash," he told her. His eyes met hers, and, as always, the look 
of contrition on his face—the genuine sorrow in his chestnut eyes—chipped away 
at her anger. "All I put on it was a hundred."
"But it was a hundred more than we could afford," Janet objected, her voice 
rising more than she'd intended.
Tony, who was lazily rinsing glasses in the sink behind his bar, glanced their 
way. "And it's a hundred less than Ted owes."
Janet bit her lip, and Ted winced visibly.
"Look, honey, I'm really sorry. But you know how it is—"
"No, I don't know how it is," Janet interrupted, her anger flooding back in the 
face of his automatic expectation that no matter how bad things got, she would 
always understand. "I don't know why you keep on drinking up your paycheck every 
week when we barely have enough money to pay the rent and eat, let alone keep 
the car running and keep me in art supplies." She regretted the last words the 
moment they came out, for the look in Ted's eyes told her she'd offered him an 
escape.
"If you earned enough with your paintings, maybe I wouldn't have to pay for the 
supplies—" he began, but she didn't let him finish.
"The last three canvases I sold paid off the credit cards and bought the kids 
their Christmas presents. And if I have to, I can borrow some money from Keith 
at the gallery, since he's sure he won't have any trouble selling the two I'm 
working on." She hesitated, even tried to hold the next words back, but her 
anger won out. "And if I have to borrow money from Keith, you'd better believe 
I'm going to tell him why I need it. I'm not going to make up any stories to 
cover for you." Her voice was rising, and suddenly everyone at the bar was 
looking at her. She could hear her mother clucking with disapproval, but she 
ignored the warning. "Is that what you want, Ted? Do you want me to start 
telling everyone why the credit cards are maxed out and the checks are starting 
to bounce again?" She glanced around the seedy bar and shook her head in 
disgust. "Even the manager of this place won't want you working for him 
anymore."
The look of sorrow was back in his eyes. "I'll stop," he promised. "I swear to 
God, hon, I won't have another drink until every bill we have is paid off." He 
fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed her all the cash he 
had. "Take it," he said. "Take it all. Maybe it'll be enough for whatever you 
need."
Janet gazed at him for a long time. Even in the dim light of the bar, she could 
see the pain in his expression. Beneath the erosion alcohol had carved on his 
features, the remains of the boyish looks that had first attracted her to him 
were still visible. She reached out as if to take the money, but her hand fell 
back to her side and she shook her head. "It's not the money, Ted," she said, 
her anger finally draining away. "It's you. I don't want your money. I want 
you." Turning away from her husband, Janet fled the dim bar, emerging into the 
light and heat of the morning.
At least I didn't cry, she told herself as she got back in the Toyota. At least 
I didn't let any of them see me cry.
But as she drove away, the tears she'd managed to control in the bar finally 
overcame her, running freely down her face.
Ted Conway watched his wife hurry out of the bar, then pushed his empty glass 
away, stood, and shoved his wallet back in his pocket. But before he could start 
back to his office, his eye fell on the empty glass.
He looked at it for a long time, knowing he should leave it where it was and go 
back to work. Instead he sat back down on the stool and nudged the empty glass 
toward Tony. "I guess one more won't hurt, will it?"


 
 
CHAPTER 2
 
 
 Cora Conway had been awaiting death for more years than she could clearly 
remember. Long ago, she supposed, there must have been a time when she welcomed 
life, but memories of those times had long since faded away, disappearing into 
the gray fog that seemed to wrap itself more closely around her with every day 
that passed.
Not that Cora kept track of the days anymore, for each day was just like the day 
that had gone before, and would be just like the day that was to come. She would 
awaken in her bed, here in the room that was so familiar to her that if one 
morning she woke up blind, the image of her surroundings would be so vivid that 
the loss of her sight would make no difference.
The nightstand was on the left.
The table with the reading lamp and the music box was on the right.
If she got up from her bed and moved toward the door to the hallway outside her 
room—a door at the end of a short corridor that pierced the exact center of the 
north wall of her room—she would pass two other doors.
The one to the left led to the closet that contained her clothing.
The one on the right led to the bathroom she shared with the person in the room 
next to hers.
She had never seen the person in the room next to hers, had no idea if it was a 
man or a woman.
Nor did she care.
There was a window in the south wall of her room, but Cora had no need to look 
out of it: it faced another window a few feet away, beyond which was a room that 
she was quite certain was a mirror image of her own.
Once, long ago, she'd wondered if that room contained a woman who was a mirror 
image of herself, and the next time she'd looked in the mirror above the dresser 
that sat against the wall opposite the foot of her bed, she'd wondered if she 
might really be looking through a window into another apartment. She'd watched 
the woman in the mirror grow old, watched the face lose the beauty it had once 
had. She'd stopped touching her own face at all, clinging to the belief that the 
image in the mirror couldn't be hers.
That was why she never looked at her hands, or her feet, or any other part of 
herself.
That was why, day after day, she lay on her back on the bed and stared at the 
ceiling.
And waited as the days passed.
After Cora woke up, the woman with the breakfast tray would come, and then she 
would sit up, lean against the pillows, and eat her breakfast, careful not to 
glance at the woman in the mirror.
She would lie on her back until the boy brought lunch.
She would lie on her back until another woman brought dinner.
She spoke to no one; if she spoke, she would have to hear her own voice, which 
she had no desire to do.
She would go to sleep, and then wake up, and one day was exactly like the one 
that had passed, and the one to come.
She had no idea when the fog had begun to gather. She had merely become aware of 
it one day, a grayish mist at the far reaches of her consciousness. She hadn't 
thought much about it, but every now and then she'd noticed that the fog was 
creeping closer. Its gray was darkening, and it was beginning to blur the images 
of her world.
The fog, she thought, was death edging close, and so she began to prepare 
herself, begging forgiveness for sins grown so remote and indistinct that she 
had forgotten what those sins might have been. As the fog grew denser, she began 
to look for death, began to seek it out, searching the gray mists for the dark 
spirit she knew would soon emerge.
This morning she had finally seen it.
She'd caught her first glimpse of it by accident, for as she'd risen from her 
bed to make her way to the bathroom, she'd let her eyes stray toward the mirror 
over the dresser. Though she'd turned sharply away, something in the mirror had 
seeped into her memory, and when she came out of the bathroom a little while 
later, she went to the mirror and peered into it.
The woman she saw in the glass bore no resemblance to herself: the clouded eyes 
were sunk deep in a mass of wrinkled skin, and only a few wisps of whitish hair 
covered the blotchy scalp. But it wasn't the image of the dying woman that had 
caught Cora's attention; it was something that loomed behind her.
Though she'd never seen it before, she recognized it right away.
Death was finally emerging from the mist, coming for her.
In her mind, Cora had always seen the figure of Death clad in black, its eyes 
glowering coldly out from a skeletal face all but lost in the folds of its hood. 
But the angel who now approached her was nothing like the image she'd conjured 
in her imagination. This spirit wore no hood. The folds of its shroud flowed 
gracefully around it in shimmering waves of silver, and a radiant smile bathed 
its face in a golden glow. Its arms were spread wide as if to enfold her in a 
comforting embrace. The horror Cora had always felt toward death—the certain 
knowledge that whatever eternity might await her would be far worse than the 
years she'd already endured—began to crumble as the luminous figure approached.
Instinctively, her fingers moved to the tiny golden cross that hung from a thin 
chain around her neck, and she traced its delicate shape as she recalled for the 
first time in countless years the words of the person who had placed it upon 
her: "This will protect you. Never let it go until the angel comes for you."
Cora had not understood then, had never thought of Death as an angel who would 
deliver her from the weight of her years, but only as a harbinger of the 
punishment yet to come.
Now, as the figure moved closer, the swirling dark fog seemed to lift.
Returning to her bed, she sat on its edge and pulled open the top drawer of the 
nightstand. It was filled almost to overflowing with the detritus of a nearly 
forgotten life—scraps of paper with meaningless words scrawled on them, coupons 
torn from newspapers and magazines, small gifts brought by people whose names 
and faces had long since fallen from her memory. The drawer jammed halfway out, 
then crashed to the floor when Cora jerked it free. Falling to her knees, she 
rummaged through the litter on the carpet, her fingers searching for the single 
object that she knew—with sudden, piercing clarity—she must find.
When the nurse found her, Cora was still on the floor.
She tried to explain what she was looking for, but the words wouldn't come, and 
when the nurse lifted her back onto the bed, Cora was unable to resist. She 
struggled against the straps the nurse bound her with, but they were too strong 
for her.
As she wrestled against the constricting bands, she caught another glimpse of 
Death in the mirror, and let herself sink into the familiar contours of the 
mattress, let the pillow cradle her head, and watched as the spirit drew closer.
The afternoon light faded as the spirit emerged from the glass, and Cora felt 
the comforting presence of Death so close by that had it not been for the straps 
restraining her arms, she might have reached out and drawn it to her.
Darkness closed around her. She thought she heard the spirit's voice, whispering 
that it was time for her to go.
Cora's lips worked, struggling to form words she hadn't spoken for years. "Ted," 
she whispered at last. "I want ... please ... Ted."
Drained by the effort it took to speak, a great sigh escaped Cora Conway's 
lungs, and she lay still.
For a moment the nurse thought Cora Conway had died, but then she saw that the 
old woman was still breathing, though shallowly. She seemed to have lapsed once 
more into the semicoma in which she'd lain for months; the nurse loosened the 
restraints. She would look in on her later, before her shift was over, to see 
how she was doing. Only then, if the patient seemed to be weakening, would she 
call the old woman's only relative.
Her nephew, Ted Conway, who hadn't visited his aunt in years. No reason to call, 
the nurse thought, unless some further change indicated that his aunt was dying.
Then, perhaps, he would come, if only to say goodbye.
 
Ted Conway glanced up as the five o'clock news came on the television behind the 
bar, and signaled Tony for one last vodka tonic before calling it a day. He was 
tired—despite what Janet had said, he hadn't just been "drinking up his 
paycheck" in the bar all afternoon. He'd been working, reviewing the file that 
lay open in front of him, but mostly keeping an eye on the bartender, whom he 
was all but certain was ripping off the Majestic. Ted still wasn't sure how Tony 
was doing it—he'd kept a careful eye on the way Tony poured the drinks, and even 
asked for a couple of straight shots, just to make sure the liquor wasn't being 
watered. Nor had he been able to catch Tony palming money, though he hadn't been 
able to rule it out, either. One thing he'd discovered in his twenty years in 
the hotel business was that bartenders learned lots of tricks, and sleight of 
hand wasn't the rarest of them. The trouble was, Frank Gilman, the general 
manager, wouldn't spring for the equipment they needed to keep their bartenders 
honest. All it required was a liquor meter, and a computerized cash register 
that wouldn't let the meter pour any booze that wasn't on a bill.
"We're not the Sheraton," Gilman had groused when Ted brought up the problem the 
previous week. "We can't afford that kind of stuff, and even if we could, I 
wouldn't put it in. A bartender should have the right to buy a customer a drink 
now and then. It keeps them coming back."
Well, at least Gilman was right about one thing: the Majestic was no Sheraton. 
Ted had worked in a Sheraton for a while, and it was a hell of a lot nicer than 
this dump. In fact, he thought, he'd still be there if the general manager 
hadn't been such an asshole. He still didn't understand what the big deal had 
been about his keeping a bottle of Smirnoff in his desk. After all, wasn't the 
hotel business based on hospitality? So he had a few drinks with the vendors who 
came in trying to sell him everything from linens to bar snacks. What was the 
big deal? That's how business worked. At least Frank Gilman understood that.
Tony put the fresh drink in front of him, and Ted was about to pick it up when 
he stiffened, knowing, even before he glanced up into the mirror behind the bar, 
that Frank Gilman was standing behind him. In the brief moment before he put on 
his best assistant manager's smile—the one that rarely failed to disarm even the 
angriest of hotel guests—he wondered why he could always sense the general 
manager's presence. And it wasn't just Gilman—it was every damn manager he'd 
ever worked for. It wasn't anything tangible; just a sixth sense he'd always 
had. But what was Gilman doing here? It was Friday—Gilman's golf day—and he'd 
left right after lunch, just like he always did. So what brought him back? If 
there'd been a problem in the hotel, someone would have called him. But the 
afternoon had been dead quiet, except for Janet coming in and hassling him about 
the credit card. Other than that, nothing had been going on. Nada. Then, as 
Gilman slid into the space next to him, he understood: his boss was finally 
taking his concerns about Tony seriously, and had dropped in to check up on him.
"I still don't get it, Frank," Ted said, keeping his voice low enough so Tony 
wouldn't be able to hear him. "I know he's doing it, but I don't know how."
Gilman's eyes narrowed. "Maybe we should talk in my office," he suggested.
Draining the vodka tonic Tony had set in front of him less than five minutes 
earlier, Ted stood up, steadied himself against the bat, then started after 
Gilman, who was already pushing through the door to the lobby.
"Don't forget your file, Ted," Tony said.
Turning back, Ted swept the file off the bar, swearing under his breath as half 
the papers fluttered to the floor. He knelt quickly, stuffed them back in the 
folder, then hurried after Gilman.
The bartender watched him go. As the door swung shut behind Conway, he turned 
back to his halfhearted polishing of the bar glasses, and the conversation he'd 
been having with the hooker perched two stools away from Ted all afternoon. 
"Don't think we'll be seeing him around much longer," he observed.
The hooker shrugged. "Too bad. At least he never hassled me like the last one."
Tony chuckled. "Think he was ever sober enough to notice you?"
The prostitute's laugh was just enough to carry through the door into the lobby, 
where Ted was about to step into Frank Gilman's office. Maybe when he was done 
with Frank, Ted thought, he'd go back to the bar and run the hooker out of the 
place. People like her could give the hotel a worse name than it already had. He 
moved through the door to the general manager's office, closing it behind him to 
shut out the whore's laughter. It wasn't until he was about to lower himself 
into the deep comfort of the worn leather easy chair in front of Gilman's desk 
that he realized that Gilman was still on his feet, leaning against his desk, 
his arms folded over his chest. Ted, his reflexes too slow to recover his feet, 
dropped gracelessly into the chair.
"You're drunk again, Ted."
Though Gilman hadn't stated it as a question, Ted shook his head vigorously. "I 
had a couple of drinks, sure," he admitted. "But how else am I going to nail 
that son of a—"
"Don't bother," Gilman cut in. "You've been sitting at the bar all afternoon, 
and by the last count, you'd had ten drinks."
Ted rose to his feet, his face reddening as his temper pounded at his temples. 
"Who said that? I had two drinks, and even those hardly had anything in them!"
Gilman's lips tightened and he shook his head. "It's too late, Ted. Tony doesn't 
short the drinks, and he isn't stealing from us."
Ted's eyes squinted into angry slits. "I can prove he is."
"You can't, because he isn't. Anyway, not what I call stealing. But looking at 
your expenses, I can't say the same for you."
Caught off guard, Ted hesitated. "Expenses?"
Gilman picked up a thin sheaf of papers from his desk. "You turned in a 
three-hundred-dollar bar tab last month, Ted. Three hundred dollars. I'd ask you 
how you did it, but I'm not sure I really want to know." As Ted started to 
speak, Gilman held up a hand to silence him. "I really don't want to know, Ted." 
Now he picked up an envelope and handed it to Ted. "This is your last paycheck. 
I put in a month's severance, and you can keep your medical for three months. 
Pretty generous, I'd say." His brows arched. "Frankly, if I were you, I'd use it 
to get some help with your drinking problem."
A vein in Ted Conway's forehead began to throb. "I don't have a problem," he 
began. "So I have a drink or two now and then. Who doesn't?" He gestured vaguely 
toward the expense report. "And most of that stuff's business." His voice took 
on a wheedling note. "C'mon, Frank, you know how it is! You used to do my job."
"And I was sober when I did it, Ted." He moved toward the door. "I'm going to 
need your keys."
Ted stared at his boss, reality finally sinking in. "You know what?" he said, 
fishing the heavy ring of keys out of his pocket and flinging them on the 
manager's desk. "You can't fire me, Frank. I quit! You run a crappy hotel here, 
and I can't believe how long I've hung around trying to clean it up. Well, the 
hell with it, Frank. The hell with it, and the hell with you! You can take this 
whole place and shove it." Snatching the envelope containing his last paycheck 
from Gilman's hand, Ted wheeled around and jerked the door open.
"On my report to the state, I'll say I laid you off, Ted," Gilman said. "That 
way you can collect your unemployment right away, and you won't have it on your 
record that you got fired. It's the best I can do for you."
Ted Conway ignored Gilman's words. Slamming the door shut behind him, he started 
across the lobby toward the bar, then remembered what Gilman had said about how 
many drinks he'd had that afternoon. Goddamn bartender must have been spying on 
him! Well, there were plenty of other places where he could get a drink.
And plenty of other hotels that needed a good assistant manager, too.
Who the hell needed the Majestic?
Goddamn dive!
It wasn't until he was a block away from the hotel, with the dank heat of the 
late afternoon sapping his anger, that he thought of Janet, and what she'd say 
when he told her he'd quit his job.
Automatically, Ted Conway turned into the first bar he came to.


 
 
CHAPTER 3
 
 
How much longer? Janet wondered. The unspoken question had seemed utterly 
innocuous when it first popped into her mind, relating to nothing more 
earthshaking than how much longer the reheated casserole in the oven might hold 
out before it would need the addition of a little milk to keep it palatable. But 
as she cracked the oven open to test the tuna and noodle concoction, the 
question that had posed itself in her mind kept coming back, each time attaching 
itself to another aspect of her life.
How much longer before Ted comes home?
How much longer until he gets fired again?
How much longer do the kids have to put up with the fights?
How much longer can I put up with it?
"Will you stop worrying, Mom?" she heard her son say, and for a moment she 
thought she must have spoken aloud. Then she saw the mischievous glint in 
Jared's eyes. "We'll just tell Kim and Molly that the mold is parsley, or blue 
cheese or something."
Janet took a mock swing at Jared with the mixing spoon, and he spun out of range 
with a grace she would have expected from a dancer rather than a football 
player. Not that Jared bore the bulk of most football players; at nearly 
sixteen, with only 160 pounds on his six-foot frame, he was considerably smaller 
and lighter than most of his teammates. Still, despite Jared's quick reflexes 
and lean agility, Janet always cringed when she saw those big, lumbering tackles 
charging toward her son. "I've never served you moldy food yet, Jared Conway, 
but if you keep that up, I just might start!"
"Want me to call Pa and see how late he's going to be?" Jared asked, ignoring 
her threat as he opened the drawer next to the sink and pulled out a handful of 
silverware. Though he'd tried to make the question sound casual, there was 
enough tightness in his voice to betray his true question: Shall I see if I can 
find Pa at all?
Janet hesitated, then shook her head. "Let's give him another half hour, then 
we'll go ahead and eat and I'll just save some for him."
Jared hesitated, too, and Janet thought he was going to say something else, but 
he picked up a bunch of paper napkins and began setting the Formica-topped table 
that she'd bought seventeen years ago at a garage sale. At the time, her mother 
had deemed it "perfectly acceptable for newlyweds." Janet suspected that her 
mother's words now wouldn't be nearly as charitable. In fact, she suspected her 
mother would be less than charitable about her whole situation. She glanced 
around the kitchen, which was even more in need of a coat of paint than the rest 
of the house, and wondered if there were any possibility of convincing the 
landlord to repaint the place, and fix the roof as well. Fat chance! She'd 
begged for new screens all summer, hoping that the kids wouldn't have to make 
the choice between sweating through the nights in airless bedrooms or opening 
the windows to clouds of merciless mosquitoes.
"Hey, they don't drink that much blood," Jared had replied last week when she'd 
wondered how he could stand the incessant buzzing in his tiny room at the back 
of the squat one-story bungalow. It was exactly the kind of response Ted would 
have made years ago, when they'd first been married and his alcohol intake was 
little more than an occasional extra drink at a party. There was so much of Ted 
in Jared, just as there was so much of herself in Jared's twin sister, Kim, that 
at times Janet wondered if she and Ted had somehow managed accidentally to clone 
themselves, rather than produce offspring that were an amalgamation of the two 
of them.
For Jared's sake, she prayed he wasn't too much like his father, just as she 
hoped that Kim wouldn't prove to have a weakness for the same kind of man she 
herself had married.
Which wasn't really fair, she reminded herself. When she met Ted Conway, he'd 
had an easygoing charm that was so unlike her own family's stiff formality, 
she'd fallen for him almost instantly. And for a long time the marriage had been 
fine. Ted had a knack for the hotel business, and both of them had assumed 
they'd wind up in Atlanta, or Miami, or even New Orleans, with Ted running one 
of the major hotels, and she showing in some of the better galleries.
But somewhere along the way his drinking had crossed a line neither of them 
quite noticed, and that was the end of their dreams.
Not that those dreams had completely slipped away: Janet still harbored 
fantasies of showing at the major galleries, though she'd long since stopped 
sharing her hopes with Ted, whose former appreciation of her talent had devolved 
to carping about the amount she spent on canvases, paints, and brushes.
His own dreams were still wildly alive, at least when he'd had a few too many 
drinks. Then she would hear about how bad the management was at whichever hotel 
had taken a chance on hiring him. Though there was a time when she might not 
have agreed with him, during the last couple of years, she'd had to admit he was 
at least partially right. After all, what manager who knew his job would hire 
Ted, given his reputation and his history?
So why had she stayed with him?
It was a question Janet had pondered more than once, and she was all too aware 
of the answer: She stayed with Ted because she didn't have the nerve to take the 
kids and strike out on her own. After all, how much worse could things get? She 
might not be able to make much money, but she suspected that whatever she could 
earn would stretch at least as far as Ted's paycheck, since she wouldn't be 
wasting a single cent of it on liquor. And the shock of her packing up the kids 
and leaving just might jolt Ted into taking an honest look at his own life. In 
the privacy of her own conscience, she knew she was at least as responsible for 
the conditions of her life as Ted was. But how much longer could it go on?
She was rescued from having to come up with an answer to that question by the 
sudden appearance of Molly, charging into the kitchen with far more energy than 
even a fifteen-month-old had the right to possess in the face of the heat and 
humidity that had settled thickly over the stillness of the evening. Right 
behind Molly came Kim, who swept her baby sister off the floor just as Molly was 
taking a desperate plunge toward the shelter of her mother's legs.
"Gotcha!" Kim cried out, raising the little girl high over her head and tipping 
her up so that Molly was peering almost straight down. Molly feigned outrage at 
being snatched off her feet, but her giggles got the better of her, and a huge 
grin spread across her face.
"Down!" she cried. "Wanna get down!"
"Oh, you do, do you?" Kim asked. "Okay, fine!"
Releasing her sister, she let Molly drop in free fall before closing her hands 
around the little girl's waist once more.
"Don't do that!" Janet cried out as Molly uttered a shriek far more of delight 
than fear. "I swear, you'll give me a heart attack!"
"She loves it," Kim replied, swinging her sister around, then lowering her to 
the floor.
"Again!" Molly cried, trying now to shimmy up the legs of the very same person 
she'd been trying to escape only seconds before. "Do it again!"
"After supper," Kim told her. "And if you're very, very good, I'll let you help 
me wash the dishes." Giving Molly a gentle nudge toward the kitchen door, Kim 
opened the cupboard that held the luncheon china Janet's mother had given her 
for a wedding present. "You don't need anything more formal for a few years, 
dear," Janet could still hear her mother saying, and she'd certainly turned out 
to be right. "Is Pa going to be here for dinner?" Kim asked.
Janet heard the same tension in Kim's voice that she'd caught a few minutes 
before in Jared's. "I'm not sure," she said carefully, maintaining the fiction 
that all was well within their family. "But let's set a plate for him. I know 
he'll be here if he can make it." Kim shot her a quick glance that Janet had no 
trouble reading: You mean if he's sober enough! But like Jared, Kim didn't push 
the issue. "We'll give him a few more minutes," Janet said.
 
But it was far more than a few more minutes before Ted came home that evening, 
and when he did—a little after eleven—his face was flushed, his step unsteady, 
and his eyes bloodshot from the long hours of drinking. Janet was alone in the 
living room, trying to concentrate on one of the books she'd gotten from the 
library that afternoon. Molly had been tucked into her crib hours earlier, and 
Kim and Jared had escaped the heat and uneasiness in the house by going to a 
movie. When Ted didn't call out to her as he came through the back door, Janet's 
suspicion that he'd been drinking all evening was confirmed. Steeling herself to 
cope with the argument that was surely coming when he finally appeared in the 
living room, she set the book aside.
"I quit that stinkin' job today," Ted announced without preamble as he 
confronted her, a beer clutched in his right hand.
Janet felt a sinking sensation in her stomach: she knew that whatever she said 
would be the wrong thing, but not saying anything at all would be even worse. 
"Did someone offer you something better?" she asked, choosing her words 
carefully, and keeping them free of any inflection that might trigger Ted's 
temper.
He dropped onto the sofa, his free hand landing on her thigh. "Just couldn't 
take Frank Gilman any longer. Man's a dumbass!"
"Well, I'm sure you'll find something else," Janet offered, but even through his 
drunkenness, Ted recognized her ploy.
His eyes narrowed to puffy slits, and his hand tightened on her thigh. "Don't 
patronize me."
Janet's mind raced, remembering the night two years ago when Ted came home even 
drunker than this, and decided he wanted to make love to her. She'd tried to put 
him off, but it hadn't worked, and rather than fight him, she'd given in.
It had been a horrible night for her. When she discovered she was pregnant, 
she'd toyed with the idea of getting an abortion, but only for a moment. And 
when Molly was born, Janet knew she'd been right. But she didn't want it to 
happen again. "I'm very tired, Ted," she began, but Ted only leered.
"Then let's go to bed."
She cast around in her mind for something else—anything to put him off—when the 
phone rang. The surprise of it startled Ted as much as Janet. His hand fell away 
from her leg as she stood up to answer it, thoughts of some accident to Kim and 
Jared already leaping into her mind.
"May I speak to Ted Conway, please?" a woman asked.
There was an official-sounding tone to the voice that raised Janet's 
apprehensions even further. But whatever news this caller possessed, Ted was in 
no condition to deal with it.
"This is Mrs. Conway," she replied.
"I'm sorry to call you so late," the woman said, and Janet's fear ebbed 
slightly. Surely no one would apologize if it was about her children, would 
they? "This is Lucille Mathers, from the Willows in St. Albans?" Janet felt the 
worst of her fears instantly abate. It wasn't the kids—it was Ted's aunt. "I'm 
calling about Cora Conway," the woman went on, confirming Janet's thought. "I 
think your husband should come down here."
Janet's mind raced. Right now? St. Albans was 140 miles southeast of Shreveport; 
even if they left right away, they wouldn't get there until three in the 
morning. And given Ted's condition ... "How bad is she?" Janet asked. The last 
time she'd talked to the people at the Willows, Cora had been in a semicomatose 
state, and her condition hadn't changed in several months.
"I'm afraid it's not good," Lucille Mathers replied. Very quickly she added, "I 
don't think she can last more than another day." A pause. Then: "She wants to 
see your husband. If it's at all possible—"
"Tomorrow," Janet said, making an instant decision.
"We'll leave early in the morning, and we should be there by eleven. Can you 
tell her that?"
"Of course," Lucille Mathers replied. "We'll look for you in the morning, then."
Hanging up the phone, Janet told Ted about Cora's request. As she talked she 
wasn't sure he was even listening, but when he spoke, his tongue thickened with 
the liquor he'd consumed, she knew he had.
And she knew it was the alcohol that was replying to her, not her husband. At 
least she hoped it was.
"Why the hell should I go see Aunt Cora?" he demanded. "She's crazy as a loon, 
and always has been. What am I supposed to do about her?"
"For God's sake, Ted!" Janet snapped. "She's dying, and you're the only family 
she's got!"
"So?" Ted replied. "What's she ever done for me?" Then, before Janet could 
answer him, his head dropped down onto the sofa and his eyes closed.
Janet was tempted to leave him exactly as he was and go to bed, but remembering 
that Jared and Kim hadn't come home yet, she changed her mind. Let them at least 
think he'd been sober enough when he came home to get himself into bed, she 
decided.
Shaking him hard, she finally got him to wake up just enough to let her guide 
him into the bedroom. A second later he was unconscious again, sprawled out on 
the bed in his clothing, snoring loudly.
No more, Janet thought as she lay beside him an hour later. Though Jared and Kim 
had come in and gone to bed and, undoubtedly, right to sleep, she herself was 
still wide-awake, listening to Ted's heavy breathing.
Something was going to have to change.
She couldn't live this way any longer.
None of them could.


 
 
CHAPTER 4
 
 
Jared and Kimberley didn't have to glance at each other over Molly's head to 
understand that both of them were thinking exactly the same thing: How come 
we've never been here before?
The long drive southeast from Shreveport had been made in silence, the kind of 
silence that strained everyone's nerves, as if a bomb were ticking somewhere in 
the car, and each of them was nervously waiting for it to explode. Both the 
older children had held their breath when their mother offered to drive so their 
father could sleep, but Ted contented himself with a deep scowl in his wife's 
direction, and the observation that "I drive better dead drunk than most people 
do stone sober."
Silence. No one was going to fall into that trap. Even Molly had somehow sensed 
that today was not a good one for fussing.
But now, as they drove into the town of St. Albans, the tension in the car 
finally began to ease, partly out of the simple knowledge that the long drive 
through the humid heat was almost over, but mostly because the scene unfolding 
before them was so completely unexpected, at least for Jared and Kimberley. 
Although neither of them had ever been there, they had both been aware of St. 
Albans for as long as they could remember.
It was where Aunt Cora lived, locked away in a sanatorium. Even when the twins 
were very small they'd imagined what it must look like. They'd whispered 
descriptions of it to each other in the bedroom they shared until they were 
five, vying with each other to describe the scariest place imaginable: a brick 
building with bars over the windows, surrounded by a high chain-link fence. 
"With barbwire on top," Jared solemnly assured his sister, "so the crazy people 
can't climb over and kill us all."
"I bet they keep them in cages," Kim had offered, but Jared, ten minutes older, 
and thus far wiser than his sister, shook his head.
"They keep the worst ones in pits," he told her. "With only a hole on the top 
that they drop food through, and a metal lid so they can't climb out."
The St. Albans of their fantasies was no less grim than their imaginings about 
the sanatorium. "I don't even want to talk about it," their father told them the 
few times they'd asked him what it was like. "My uncle threw my father out, and 
he never went back. Hated the place till the day he died, and hated my aunt and 
uncle, too. Said he'd rather burn in hell than live in St. Albans." The image 
the children conjured from this grim declaration was composed of bits and pieces 
of the worst things they'd ever seen—rotting shanties with no windows and 
sagging roofs, jumbled together on grassless tracts of worn-out land facing 
unpaved roads; a crumbling, heat-baked main street with a few stores with 
peeling paint and filthy windows displaying dusty, unwanted merchandise. In 
their minds, St. Albans was all but deserted—most of the population, of course, 
having been confined to the sanatorium, which they'd imagined as looming darkly 
in the center of the town.
What they now saw was even more surprising than their wild imaginings. The 
little town appeared almost out of nowhere as they came around a bend in the 
highway. Rather than narrowing, the road widened as it came into St. Albans, and 
became a boulevard with a broad median strip separating the two lanes. A row of 
ancient oak trees marched down the median, spaced widely enough when they were 
planted so that now their branches, dripping with Spanish moss, provided a 
perfect canopy for the street and the front yards of the homes that faced it. 
After half a mile the street opened into a large oak-shaded square that held a 
bandstand, some picnic tables, and a small playground for children. On one side 
of the square a row of shop fronts glistened from buildings at least a dozen 
decades old, but as freshly painted as the day they'd been built. Everywhere, 
the influence of New Orleans was clear, from the gated facades that promised 
sun-dappled courtyards hidden behind them, to the ornately worked wrought iron 
that decorated second-floor balconies. Jalousied shutters were closed against 
the morning heat, and only small windows pierced the thick walls of the shops, 
which were identified by ornately lettered signs hanging from curlicued iron 
brackets.
"It looks sort of like the French Quarter," Jared said as they passed through 
the center of town.
"But a lot duller," his father observed darkly, and a moment later turned right, 
away from the square.
The side streets appeared to be as well kept as the main street and the area 
around the square, and were lined with houses that also echoed New Orleans, with 
French, Georgian, and Victorian styles jumbled together in a pleasant melange 
brought together by the moss-draped trees that spread over the lawns and 
gardens. These offered shady respite from the pervading heat that lay over the 
town even now, in early fall.
"It's beautiful," Kim breathed as her father turned left after driving two more 
blocks. Here, the oaks gave way to willows, their branches draping gracefully to 
within a foot of the ground. Then, in the next block, placed in the center of a 
large lawn, she saw a sign:
 
The Willows At St. Albans    
The sanatorium was not at all what she and Jared had imagined. A white limestone 
structure whose core section rose two stories, it was fronted by a broad porch 
with five Corinthian columns rising all the way up to support the roof. 
Single-story wings spread out from the center, also constructed of white 
limestone. The windows, far from being barred, were flanked with gray wooden 
shutters, held open with wrought-iron hooks. Bougainvillea blooming in a 
profusion of scarlet, red, and pink was banked against the twin wings, and a low 
fence of sculpted wrought iron surrounded a broad lawn that boasted two of the 
largest willow trees Kim had ever seen.
Ted pulled the car to a stop in a parking area at the foot of the steps that led 
to the wide front porch. But as his wife and children piled out into the 
late-morning sunshine to stretch after the long ride, he stayed behind the 
wheel, his eyes fixed on the building almost as if he expected some danger 
suddenly to manifest itself.
Janet glanced nervously at the kids. "She's a harmless old lady, Ted," she said 
quietly. "And she's dying. It's not going to hurt you to say goodbye to her."
Ted's eyes narrowed, but he finally got out of the car.
Together, the family mounted the steps, crossed the porch, and pushed through 
the front door.
Inside, they found a comfortable reception area, with several chintz-covered, 
overstuffed chairs arranged around a large coffee table. A gray-haired woman 
wearing a pale blue dress—and a small white badge that identified her as 
Beatrice LeBecque—looked up from a computer terminal, her smile of welcome 
fading into an expression of sympathy as she recognized Ted and Janet Conway. 
"I'm so glad you were able to come," she said. "I think Mrs. Conway's been 
waiting for you."
"She didn't even know—" Ted began.
"She's awake?" Janet quickly asked, deliberately cutting Ted off, her glance 
darting warningly toward Jared and Kim.
"I believe so," the receptionist replied. She pointed toward a set of double 
doors at the far end of the reception area that led to one of the two wings. 
"The third room on the right, in East Two."
"Can the children wait here?" Janet asked.
"Of course," Beatrice LeBecque replied. "But if the two older ones want to see 
their aunt, I can look after the little one." Producing a bright red lollipop 
from the center drawer of her desk, she held it out toward Molly. "Look what 
I've got for you."
Molly immediately squirmed to be set free from her mother's arms, and Janet 
lowered her to the floor. In an instant she was around the end of the desk and 
climbing up into Bea LeBecque's lap. "I think we'll get along just fine." Bea 
smiled. "I like to think children like me, though I suspect it's more the 
lollipops."
As her youngest daughter picked at the wrapper of the lollipop, Janet turned to 
the older children. "Why don't you wait here until we find out if she's well 
enough to see you."
As their parents disappeared behind the double doors to East Two, Kim and Jared 
looked at each other.
None of it was anything like what they'd expected.
Not the town.
Not the sanatorium.
Once again the same thought occurred to both of them at the same time, and as 
always, both of them knew it. As if by some kind of silent communion, it was 
agreed that Jared would voice the question.
"Our aunt Cora..." he began uncertainly. "We've never met her, but we've heard—" 
He hesitated, but the words his father had invariably used finally fell from his 
lips. "Is she really crazy?"
Bea LeBecque stopped her gentle bouncing of Molly, and the little girl cocked 
her head, peering up into Bea's face as if she, too, were waiting to hear the 
answer to her big brother's question.
"She's very old," the receptionist finally replied. "And she's been very alone. 
But is she crazy?" She fell silent for a long moment, then her head moved in a 
slow nod. "Now that I think about it," she said softly, "I hope she is." She was 
silent again, then: "For her sake, I hope she is."
 
Janet laid a hand on Ted's arm just as he was about to open the door to his 
aunt's room. When he turned to look at her, she could still see the hangover in 
his eyes, but today the toll of his drinking appeared even greater than usual: 
the sharp planes of his cheeks and chin were blurring, and a network of veins 
was appearing on his nose. But more than that, there was an underlying anger in 
the grim set of his features that Janet hadn't seen before.
Or, more than likely, she thought, hadn't let herself see. But of course, she 
knew in her heart that the anger had been there for a long time. It wasn't as if 
Ted had tried to hide it. He'd even used it as an excuse for his drinking, 
shifting responsibility from one problem to another, shoring up one excuse with 
another until so much of him had disappeared into his defensiveness that she'd 
sometimes wondered if there was anything left of the man she had married.
Nobody, to hear him tell it, had ever given him a decent break; not his parents, 
who had split up when he was a baby, or any of the people he'd worked for. And 
certainly not his aunt Cora, who had been in this room through most of his life, 
becoming nothing more to him than a burden of guilt he'd always resented. But 
now it was almost over.
"She's dying, Ted," Janet repeated softly, her eyes meeting his. "I know how you 
feel about her, but all she wants to do is say goodbye." For a moment she 
wondered if he'd heard her, but then he gently stroked her cheek with a single 
finger, in a gesture she hadn't felt in years.
"Hey, I know I'm not always the easiest guy in the world to get along with, but 
I'm not a monster, okay?"
"Last night you said—"
"Last night I had a lot top much to drink. And I'm not going to pretend I didn't 
pay for it this morning, and made you and the kids pay for it, too." He forced a 
smile that Janet sensed was masking pain he couldn't let her see. "I'm not going 
to try to even any scores," he promised. "It's way too late for that."
The door to Cora Conway's room opened and a priest emerged. He was ancient, his 
face deeply creased, his shoulders stooped as if with the weight of the decades 
of confessions he'd heard. From the waist of his cassock hung the beads of a 
rosary, and in his arms he cradled a Bible that looked even older than he, the 
finish of its leather cover long ago worn away by the hands of those who studied 
it, the binding of its spine weakened—but not quite broken—from constant use. As 
he pulled the door closed behind him, almost as if to shut out his penitent's 
final visitors, his eyes fixed on Ted. His mouth worked as if he were about to 
speak, but then his lips closed and he turned away. With a step so halting he 
seemed about to fall, the priest made his way down the hall and disappeared 
around the corner.
Only when he'd vanished did Ted grasp the handle of his aunt's door. A moment 
later he stepped into Cora Conway's room, Janet closely following him.
Both of them smelled death in the air. It seemed they were too late; surely no 
life could remain in the still and shrunken figure that lay in the bed.
Cora's wispy hair was matted against her scalp, and her eyes were shut. Her left 
hand lay in her lap, but her right was closed on an object suspended from a 
chain around her neck.
There was a stillness to the room, a heavy silence that made Janet slip her hand 
into Ted's.
Another gesture that hadn't occurred in recent years.
Then, out of the stillness, there was a rasping gurgle.
Cora Conway's chest rose as she sucked air into her weak lungs, and her rheumy 
eyes opened.
She blinked.
Finally her eyes moved, slowly scanning the room, as if she were searching for 
something.
At last they came to rest on Ted Conway.    "Stay away," she gasped, her voice 
barely audible. "Stay away from here."
Instantly, Janet stepped around Ted and lay her hand on the old woman's 
shoulder. "It's all right, Aunt Cora. Everything is going to be all right."
The old woman's collapsed lips worked as she struggled to formulate words. "The 
children," she finally managed to whisper. "I want to see the children." Janet 
hesitated, gazing down into the ruined face of the dying woman, but Cora's eyes 
locked onto her own, and the old woman's left hand closed on her wrist. "Bring 
them," Cora whispered. The words, though barely audible, were not a plea. 
Rather, they were a command. "Bring them to me!"
Still Janet hesitated. In all the years she and Ted had been married, they'd 
visited Cora Conway only half a dozen times. The visits had been brief, for 
Ted's aunt had invariably commanded him to leave—just as she had today. The last 
two times Janet had come, she hadn't even tried to convince Ted to join her.
She had never brought the children, afraid that they would be terrified of the 
strange old woman, and that Cora would only become more agitated than she 
already was. Nor had Cora ever asked for them before; indeed, Janet couldn't 
tell if the old woman had even understood her when she talked about them. Now, 
though, it was clear.
Cora Conway wanted to see the children.
And certainly Jared and Kim were old enough not only to understand their 
great-aunt's condition, but the mental illness that had blighted so much of her 
life.
Making up her mind, she covered Cora's clutching hand with her own reassuring 
one, and bent low so she was speaking directly into Cora's ear. "I'll get them," 
she said. "I'll be right back."
"I'll stay with Molly," Ted said, following her back out to the reception area.
Janet nodded her agreement, relieved that at least this one time Ted's 
motives—which she suspected were primarily rooted in a desire to escape his 
aunt—coincided with her own needs. "It won't be long," she assured him. "It 
seems like she's barely hanging on."
On the way back to Cora's room, Janet tried to prepare Jared and Kim for the 
dying old woman who was their closest living relative, but the moment the twins 
stepped into the room, she knew she needn't have worried.
Showing no sign that they noticed the odor of disinfectant and death, the twins 
went directly to the bed. "Aunt Cora?" Kim said. "I'm Kim. It's so nice to 
finally meet you."
Cora Conway's eyes fixed on Kim for a fraction of a second, then shifted to 
Jared, fastening onto him with a burning intensity. For a long time she said 
nothing.
Finally, the boy extended his hand, as if to touch her. "I'm Jared—" he began, 
but Cora cut him off, shrinking from his touch.
"A Conway," she said. "I can see it. Stay away! Stay away from here!"
Jared, recoiling from his aunt's words, glanced nervously at his mother, then 
tried again. "It's all right, Aunt Cora," he said, this time reaching out and 
placing his hand gently on her shoulder.
Cora twitched away, as if she had been pricked by a needle. "Go!" she rasped. 
"Go now!"
Jared glanced at his mother, who tilted her head almost imperceptibly toward the 
door. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I didn't mean to ..." His voice trailed off 
as he realized his aunt Cora had already shifted her attention back to his 
sister. "I'm sorry," he repeated once more, then quickly backed away from the 
bed, turned, and hurried from the room.
As soon as Jared was gone, Cora pulled herself up in the bed. Her hands fumbled 
with the chain around her neck. "Wear this," she said, her voice croaking as she 
struggled with the chain's tiny clasp.
"Let me help you," Janet offered, moving closer to the bed.
Cora shook her head. "Kimberley. Kimberley must do it!" Exhausted by her 
efforts, Cora dropped back against the pillows and lay still as her great-niece 
carefully unfastened the clasp and lifted the chain from the old woman's neck. 
As the tiny golden cross hung before her, Cora reached out for it, almost as if 
to take it back, but then dropped her hand onto the coverlet. "Put it on," she 
told Kim. She fell silent again, but her eyes missed nothing as Kim carefully 
put the chain around her own neck, fastened it, then touched the small gold 
cross. "There is another one," Cora said when she was satisfied that the cross 
was in place. "In the drawer." She waited as Kim opened the drawer, searched for 
a moment, then found a second cross, identical to the one that now hung around 
her neck. "For the little one," Cora whispered. Her eyes flicked away from Kim, 
fastening on the place where Jared had stood a few moments ago. She smiled, as 
if recognizing some person unseen by either Janet or Kim, and both mother and 
daughter could see the tension draining from the old woman's body. "It will 
protect you," she whispered. "Just as it protected me. Don't ever take it off."
Suddenly, she extended both arms, as if to welcome an embrace. Her smile 
broadened, her eyes cleared, and the years seemed to fall away from her.
Before either Janet or Kim could move toward her, Cora's hands dropped back to 
her sides. With a long sigh she relaxed into her pillows, her eyes closing as if 
she'd fallen into a deep sleep.
Her breathing stopped.
Then, in a flash so brief Kim would never be certain it had actually happened, 
she sensed the light in the room had changed, muted into a golden glow that 
suffused the air.
Beautiful, she thought. So beautiful.
"I'll take Molly's cross," Janet said quietly as she led Kim toward the door a 
moment later. "When she's old enough, we'll give it to her together, and tell 
her where it came from."
Kim barely heard the words, and as she was leaving, she turned to look back.
The soft, serene light had vanished as utterly as if it had never been there at 
all.
The golden glow—like her aunt Cora—had gone and now the room seemed dark and 
cold.
So cold it made Kim shudder.


 
 
CHAPTER 5
 
 
I'm so sorry, Mr. Conway." The sympathetic expression in Beatrice LeBecque's 
eyes and the genuine sorrow in her voice told Ted what had happened far more 
clearly than the woman's words. He hadn't been too surprised when Jared came 
back into the reception area only a few minutes after he'd left with his mother 
and sister. Nor had his aunt's reaction to his son surprised him; indeed, it was 
her desire to see Jared at all that had caught him off guard. "Don't take it 
personally," he'd advised. "It doesn't have anything to do with you. It has to 
do with the fact that you're a male."
"If she's got a problem with men, how come she married your uncle?" Jared asked, 
relieving his father of Molly, who'd been squirming uncomfortably in Ted's lap.
"You got me on that one. Who knows? Maybe it was Uncle George killing himself 
that soured her in the first place. Anyway, she sure never got over it."
They'd fallen silent then, Ted leafing through a magazine as the last vestiges 
of his hangover finally lifted, while Jared played a game with Molly, the rules 
of which seemed far clearer to the toddler than to her big brother. When the 
phone on Bea LeBecque's desk rang, both of them looked up, sharply. Now even 
Molly was silent, sitting quietly on her brother's lap.
So, the old lady was finally gone. Ted tried to analyze what he felt:
Grief? How could you feel grief for someone you'd barely known, and from whom 
you'd never heard a friendly word, let alone a kind one?
Loss? Of what? Certainly not family, since he had no memory of ever having seen 
his aunt anywhere but here. The only family he knew—had ever known, really—was 
Janet. Janet, and their children.
Sympathy? A little. At least Cora Conway was finally released from whatever had 
tortured her for so long. And he felt relief. Relief that the ordeal was finally 
over. A twinge of guilt stabbed at him as he realized that most of the relief he 
felt was for himself rather than for his aunt. He tried to tell himself that he 
had no reason to feel guilty, that if she'd tried to be even halfway decent to 
him, he'd have come to see her more often, tried to do more to make her life a 
little easier. Except that now, with his hangover finally gone, he knew the 
truth: he could have ignored her treatment of him, could have risen above the 
invective she had poured over him. She'd been old, and ill in her mind as well 
as her body.
He'd ignored her very existence.
And now she was dead.
No loss, no sorrow, no sense that something valuable was gone out of his life.
Just guilt.
Well, at least I can take care of her now, he told himself. With his head 
finally clear—at least of alcohol—Ted's talent for organization, which had made 
him so good at his job before he'd started drinking, came to the fore, and he 
began making a mental checklist of things that would need to be dealt with.
As it turned out, though, all the arrangements had been made long ago. "She had 
some very good days, you know," Bea LeBecque explained as she gave him the 
letter in which all of his aunt's plans were laid out, and to which she'd 
attached the receipts indicating that Cora had paid her own funeral expenses in 
advance. "Really, all you need to do is contact Bruce Wilcox." The name meant 
nothing to Ted. "Your aunt's attorney," the receptionist explained. She picked 
up the phone on her desk and dialed the lawyer's number from memory, then handed 
the receiver to Ted.
Ten minutes later, with Janet and Kim back in the reception area, Ted repeated 
what the lawyer had told him.
"There's some kind of trust," he explained. "I'm not sure I understand it, but 
this guy Wilcox says Aunt Cora ' tried to break it a long time ago, and 
couldn't."
Janet's eyes clouded. "Why did she want to break it?"
"Wilcox said she wanted to get rid of the house. But apparently that was the 
whole point of the trust—to keep the house in the family."
"So we've inherited a house?" Janet asked.
Ted shook his head. "What we've got, the way Wilcox explained it, is the right 
to live in a house."
 
They gazed at it in silence. Their eyes moved over the massive structure that 
stood amidst an acre of land so overgrown with weeds that it was hard to tell 
where—or indeed if—gardens might ever have existed.
Besides the enormous gabled building that was the house, there was also a large 
carriage house—big enough for half a dozen cars, apparently with some kind of 
apartment above it.
Though most of the windows of both buildings were intact, the paint had peeled 
away from the clapboard siding, and the smashed roofing slates that lay around 
the perimeter of the house testified to the water damage they might expect 
inside.
Vines, unchecked by any hand, had threaded their way through the great willows, 
oaks, and magnolias that dotted the property and were banked against the house 
itself. Tendrils were creeping toward the eaves, and had established a hold on 
one of the half-dozen gables that pierced the steeply pitched Victorian roof 
three stories above them.
But more than the broken windows, the fallen slates, the peeling paint, and the 
kudzu, there was an atmosphere hanging over the house—a dark melancholy—that all 
of them felt.
It was Molly who finally spoke. "Wanna go home," she said plaintively, her tiny 
hand clutching her mother's.
Janet lifted her youngest child into her arms. "In a little while," she 
promised. "We just need to look around first. All right?"
Molly said nothing, but stuck a reassuring thumb into her mouth and began 
sucking. For once, Janet made no effort to stop her.
"I wonder what the inside looks like," Ted mused, starting to pick his way 
through the tangle of weeds toward the broad front porch. The broken remnants of 
the ornate gingerbread trim that had once graced the eaves and posts of the 
porch now looked like the jagged remains of broken teeth surrounding the gaping 
maw of some dying beast.
"Is it even safe to go up there?" Janet fretted, tentatively following him. 
"What if the porch collapses?"
"It's not going to," Ted assured her. "They built these old places to last. The 
frame's probably oak." He stopped and considered the looming mass of the house, 
a few yards away now. "When you think about it, it's not in such bad shape, 
considering it's a hundred and twenty-five years old and no one's lived in it 
for the last forty years."
"It doesn't look like anyone's even been inside it," Janet replied.
Ted winked at Jared. "What do you think?" he asked his son. "You game?"
Jared's reply was to start ripping his way through the tangle, tearing vines 
from the railing and steps before gingerly testing the strength of the old wood. 
"Dad's right," he called back to his mother and sisters. "It's fine!"
Ted tried the keys Bruce Wilcox had given him, and found a fit on the third one. 
The lock stuck, and he had to jiggle the key several times, until he felt it 
twist and the bolt slide back. Then the latch clicked, and the door itself—a 
huge slab of ornately paneled and molded oak hung from four tarnished brass 
hinges—swung slowly open.
Inside the front door was a large entry hall, with arched double doors leading 
into two enormous rooms—one of which had apparently been the living room. The 
other looked to Ted as if it must have been a reception room for the Porte 
cochere that lay on the side of the house closest to the garage. At the far end 
of the entry hall was a graceful staircase that swept up to a small landing. The 
stairs split at the landing, leading in opposite directions to the symmetrical 
wings of a mahogany-railed mezzanine that provided access to the rooms on the 
second floor, as well as a clear view of the broad entry hall below. Suspended 
from the vaulted roof of the entry hall was an ornate chandelier, the sparkle of 
its crystal pendants dimmed by a thick layer of grime. Flanking the base of the 
staircase were two more corridors, leading to more doors.
From the front of the house there was no way even to guess what might be at the 
back.
For the next half hour they picked their way through the house, moving from one 
room to another. On the first floor, in addition to the living room and 
reception room, they found a dining room—easily large enough for a table to seat 
twenty-four—a library, a kitchen and pantry with a large service porch behind, 
and several smaller chambers that had apparently served as rooms for cards, 
music, sewing, and a variety of other activities. A conservatory constructed of 
three glass walls surmounted by an enormous glass dome extended out from the 
northern side of the house. Except for three cracked panes, the skylight was 
miraculously unbroken.
It was on the second floor, while her parents were exploring a large suite of 
rooms that lay above the library, that Kim felt it.
Suddenly her skin was crawling, as if a large insect were creeping across her 
neck. She jumped, reflexively brushing at the unseen creature, and the sensation 
vanished.
Steadying herself against the mahogany railing while her racing heart calmed, 
she glanced around for Jared, who had been with her only a moment before.
He seemed to have disappeared.
Then, a few paces away, she saw a door standing slightly ajar, and knew her 
brother must have gone into the room beyond it.
She started toward the door.
And felt it again.
This time it was an icy cold chill that fell over her, momentarily stopping her 
breath. She tried to call out to Jared, but the same paralysis that had fallen 
over her lungs had taken her voice as well. A terrible panic rose in her as the 
cold tightened its grip.
With no warning, the house itself had taken on a menacing quality, and she had a 
terrible feeling that she was about to die, that somehow this cavernous, 
decaying place was going to swallow her whole, and she would vanish, just as 
Jared seemed to have done a moment before.
"Kim? Hey, Kim! What's wrong?" The words startled her. She spun around to find 
Jared gazing worriedly at her. "What's wrong? How come you called me?"
For a split second Kim didn't trust herself even to speak, but then, as quickly 
as it had come over her, the strange sensations—the crawling skin, the icy 
chill, the strange paralysis—were gone.
Gone so completely that even her memory was fading with the rapidity of a dream 
vanishing in morning light, vivid one second, utterly gone only a moment later.
"I—I didn't call you," she stammered. Or had she? In the back of her mind she 
thought she felt a vague memory of wanting to call out to her brother. "D-Did 
I?" she asked.
Jared's concern congealed into fear. A second ago, in the bedroom a few feet 
away, he'd been positive he heard Kim's voice. And not just calling him, either.
She had been screaming—screaming in terror.
He had heard it!
Yet what could have caused her to scream? He glanced around, not knowing what he 
might be looking for. Could it have been a mouse, or even a rat? But Kim wasn't 
a sissy; some scurrying creature would only have provoked a surprised yelp.
What he'd heard—at least what he thought he heard—was the anguished cry of 
someone in fear for her life.
Now, though, she was staring at him, her head cocked, her eyes wide, her 
expression puzzled.
He remembered, then, something that had happened a few years ago, when they were 
eleven. Their mother had taken them for a picnic by a lake, and they'd gone 
swimming. He had hauled himself out onto a large wooden float, and was sprawled 
on his back, gazing up at the clouds floating overhead, when he'd heard exactly 
the same kind of scream from Kim as the one of a few moments earlier. He'd 
scrambled to his feet and scanned the water, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Then he'd looked down.
Kim, her eyes open and staring up at him, was lying on the bottom of the lake, 
under ten feet of crystal clear water.
She wasn't moving.
Without thinking, he'd dived for her, dragging her to the surface and wrestling 
her onto the float.
He'd started screaming himself then, calling frantically for help while trying 
to force the water from Kim's lungs. Others—grown-ups—arrived and took over, and 
after what seemed an eternity, but which he'd later been told was no more than a 
minute or two, Kim started breathing on her own again.
Afterward, when they asked him how he'd known his sister was drowning, it turned 
out that only he had heard her scream.
No one else heard anything.
Thinking about it, replaying those panicked moments in his mind, he knew his 
sister couldn't have screamed; even if she had, there was no way the sound would 
have carried out of the water.
It was, he'd finally decided, the Twin Thing, that strange, almost mystical 
connection he and his sister had always felt.
Today, though, he saw nothing that could have terrified Kim to the point of a 
scream. Not like that.
As if she'd read his mind—the Twin Thing again—Kim's eyes fixed on him. "Jared, 
what's going on? I swear, I didn't call you!" She paused, then spoke again, and 
he knew she truly had read his mind. "And I didn't even call you in my mind, 
like I did at the lake that day."
Jared hesitated, then shrugged. "Hey, if you don't remember, why should I?" he 
finally said. "And maybe it wasn't you at all—maybe it was a ghost!" He scanned 
the hallway, gave an exaggerated shudder, then fixed his sister with the most 
mysterious gaze he could muster. "Want to see if we can find one? If ghosts are 
real, this sure is where they'd be."
A moment later, the strange sensation she'd experienced all but forgotten, Kim 
set out with Jared to explore the second floor. Half a dozen bedrooms opened off 
the mezzanine—two of which had small parlors attached to them—along with three 
bathrooms. There were a few more rooms that were locked, but none of the keys 
their father had seemed to fit.
On the third floor, tucked beneath the huge oaken rafters that supported the 
slate roof, were half a dozen more rooms, each with a dormer window, those on 
the west side looking out over the town, the others over the wilderness to the 
east.
Finally, after they'd seen as much of the house as they could gain access to, 
the family gathered on the front porch.
"Well, what do you think?" Ted asked as they made their way back to the car. 
There was an excitement in his voice that immediately put Janet on her guard. A 
thought had come to her fifteen minutes ago—a thought she had instantly 
rejected. The electric note in his question told her the same thought had also 
occurred to Ted. Before he even spoke, she knew what he was going to say. "It 
would make a great little hotel, wouldn't it?"
At least a dozen answers to Ted's question popped into Janet's mind, every one 
of them negative. Instead of voicing even one of them, she slowly turned around 
and looked back at the immense derelict of a house that had sat abandoned for 
the last forty years.
She thought about Ted, and what his future in Shreveport might be. Though 
neither of them had talked about it yet, she knew there would be no job offer, 
not for a very long time.
Which meant there was nothing to hold them in Shreveport; she had no family 
there, and neither did he.
In the last few years most of their friends had drifted away, unwilling to deal 
with Ted's drinking.
Even the kids' friends didn't come over anymore.
Though she had never been a particularly religious person, it occurred to Janet 
to wonder if it was truly a coincidence that Cora Conway had died and left them 
this house at the very moment when their own lives had come to a crossroads.
"I hate to say it," she finally replied as she got into the car, "but you might 
just be right."
From the backseat Kim, too, peered out at the house.
 
Once again her skin began to crawl, and she felt a terrible chill.
And a single thought came into her mind: No! Please, God, no! Don't make us live 
here!
Two pairs of eyes—each of them unseen by the other—watched as the dented and 
dust-covered Toyota disappeared down the road. When it was finally gone, and 
even the dust it kicked up had settled, both sets of eyes shifted back to the 
great hulking shape of the house that had stood empty for the last four decades.
Now, both of the watchers were certain, it was about to be occupied again.
Still unseen by one another, their gazes shifted once more, and fixed upon the 
huge magnolia tree. From its lowest branch George Conway had hanged himself.
One of the watchers began silently to pray.
The other—equally silent—began to curse.


 
 
CHAPTER 6
 
 
Three days later they were back in St. Albans. As their father pulled the car to 
a stop in front of the Gothic facade the church of St. Ignatius Loyola presented 
to the street, Kim and Jared looked at the school that stood across from it.
The school they would be attending, starting the next day.
"Maybe it'll be all right," Jared muttered, though neither he nor Kim had any 
real idea of what to expect. "I mean, how much different can it be?"
"It's going to be a lot different," he heard his father say, making Jared wish 
he'd kept silent. "For one thing, you'll get a decent education. They don't 
coddle the kids in parochial school the way they do where you two have been 
going. And they don't put up with any nonsense, either."
Jared knew it would be useless to remind his father that both he and Kim had 
always gotten straight A's, and that neither of them had ever been in any 
trouble. After all, his father hadn't listened to a word either of them had said 
for the last two days.
They were moving to St. Albans because some uncle who had died before he was 
even born had left them a house and enough money to fix it up and turn it into a 
hotel.
And he and Kim were going to parochial school because that same uncle had wanted 
it that way, including in the trust a clause directing that any children 
benefiting from it would attend St. Ignatius Loyola School.
"But we don't want to go to parochial school," he'd objected, speaking for Kim 
as well. "We haven't even gone to church since we were little kids. None of us 
have!"
Nothing they said had made a difference. For two days they listened to their 
father talk about what a great opportunity they were being given, and how much 
they should appreciate what they were being offered.
And they watched him drink.
Jared suspected that none of the great opportunities his father kept talking 
about would materialize. Even if his father stayed sober long enough to get the 
work done and actually open a hotel—and Jared was sure he wouldn't—why would 
anyone want to stay there? And if the customers stopped coming, his father would 
drink even more. The day before yesterday—after his father had passed out—he'd 
talked to his mother about it, and for the first time he heard exactly how bad 
the situation was.
"He's not going to be able to get another job," his mother explained. "We have a 
little less than one hundred dollars in the bank. When that's gone, I don't know 
what we'll do."
"I'll get a job—" Jared began, but his mother shook her head.
"For now, you'll go to school. If you keep your grades up, you'll be able to get 
a scholarship for college. But if you get a job, your grades will slip."
"But it won't work!" Jared protested. "Dad will just sit home and drink all 
day!" The pain he'd seen in his mother's eyes made Jared wince, and for a moment 
he thought she was going to cry. Instead, she'd taken a deep breath and put both 
her hands on his shoulders.
"If that happens," she told him, looking steadily into his eyes, "I promise we 
won't stay. I don't know how we'll do it, or where we'll go, but I'll take you 
and Kim and Molly, and we'll leave. But we have to give him a chance. We have to 
let him try."
So yesterday they had loaded a U-Haul with everything they owned, and this 
morning they'd driven down from Shreveport, his father driving the truck while 
the ' rest of them—including his dog and Kim's cat—packed themselves into the 
Toyota. Fortunately, Scout was even more placid than most golden retrievers, and 
had long since decided that Muffin, not being another dog, wasn't worth 
bothering with. While Muffin curled up in Kim's lap, Scout had fallen asleep 
between them, waking up only when Molly, strapped into her own seat, managed to 
grasp his tail and give it a good yank.
 
They arrived at the church just ten minutes before the funeral mass for Cora 
Conway was scheduled to begin. It had been almost ten years since Ted Conway 
last attended a mass, and now, as he stood at the threshold of St. Ignatius 
Loyola, he hesitated.
His eyes instinctively went to the face of the figure on the cross above the 
altar, and though he tried to look away, the agonized gaze of the martyred 
Christ held him.
Reproaching him?
Accusing him?
Superstition, Ted told himself. None of it's anything more than superstition. 
But even as he silently reassured himself that it was nothing more than his own 
rejection of the religion he'd been raised in that had kept him away from church 
all those years, the throbbing in his head refused to let him forget the real 
reason he'd stayed in bed so many Sunday mornings. So what if I have a couple of 
drinks on Saturday night? Ted asked the silent figure that peered steadily at 
him from its place above the altar. A knot of resentment hardened in his belly, 
and he wished he had a drink. He started down the aisle toward the waiting pews, 
but the reflexes bred into him in the first ten years of his life overtook him, 
and his fingers dipped into the font of holy water that stood just inside the 
door.
His knees bent slightly in an automatic act of genuflection.
He crossed himself.
Only then did the tortured eyes of the figure on the cross finally release him 
and let him start down the aisle of the nearly empty church.
Janet followed, holding Molly.
Kim and Jared glanced uneasily at each other, then quickly dipped their fingers 
in the holy water in imitation of their parents and walked down the aisle, 
taking seats next to each other in the front pew. They stared at the coffin that 
stood in front of the altar, its lid closed.
Three sparse floral remembrances—along with the emptiness of the church—gave 
testimony to the loneliness of the years Cora Conway had spent at the Willows. 
As an unseen organist began playing softly in the background, Janet sighed and 
wished that she'd come to visit the old woman more often. Why had she assumed 
that her husband's aunt had friends who were visiting her? Obviously she hadn't. 
As the priest came in from a side door, signaled them to rise, and began the 
opening prayers of the mass, she quickly scanned the church and saw that it was 
still all but empty.
In fact, besides the five of them and the priest who was conducting the mass, 
there were only two other people present.
A middle-aged woman clad in a navy blue suit—her face veiled—stood in the very 
last pew, nervously twisting a pair of gloves in her hands.
And in one of the alcoves—barely visible from the church—Janet caught a glimpse 
of another priest. Had he come to the mass for Cora, or was he merely tending to 
his own private devotions, silently offering prayers to one of the saints, 
oblivious to the memorial service taking place only a few feet away?
The officiating priest finished his opening prayer, gestured to them to sit, 
then turned his back to them so he faced the coffin and the altar beyond. 
Raising his arms in supplication, he began to speak. To Janet's surprise—and for 
the first time since she was a little girl and had attended the funeral mass of 
her own grandmother—she heard the rhythmical cadences of the Latin mass.
"Jesus," she heard Ted whisper beside her. "If we'd known this was the deal, we 
wouldn't have bothered to come!"
Janet shot him a warning look. "She must have wanted it," she whispered back. 
"And it won't hurt us."
Ted's eyes rolled scornfully, and a few minutes later his head dropped forward 
onto his chest as he fell asleep.
An hour later, as the last phrases of the prayer of benediction rolled from the 
priest's tongue, Ted came awake and, responding to childhood memories similar to 
those stirring in Janet, straightened in the pew and dropped automatically to 
his knees. He crossed himself once more, then made his way past his wife and 
children to perform the single act his aunt had required of him.
Joining five men from the undertaker's who entered the church from one of the 
side doors, he took his position at the head of his aunt's casket to bear her 
out of the church to her final resting place. Janet, holding a sleeping Molly, 
stood with Jared and Kim as the casket passed, followed by the priest. As she 
started up the aisle, Janet glanced into the side chapel where she'd seen the 
elderly priest just as the service was beginning.
He lay prostrate on the stone floor, his arms spread wide. He seemed oblivious 
to the tiny procession passing behind him.
 
Janet blinked as she stepped out of the cool gloom of the church into the sultry 
heat of the Indian summer afternoon. As she followed the coffin toward the open 
grave that waited in the far corner of the small cemetery adjoining the church, 
she had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She tried to 
ignore it at first, telling herself that of course anyone who happened to be 
passing by the graveyard would glance in; perhaps even linger long enough to 
watch the burial. Surreptitiously, she glanced around, but before she could spot 
whoever might be watching, her eyes were caught by the inscription on a 
weathered bronze plate affixed to the door of a small mausoleum that stood by 
itself, set off from the rest of the cemetery by a rusting wrought-iron fence.
 
GEORGE CONWAY
BORN JULY 29, 1916
DIED JUNE 4, 1959
 
But how was that possible? Janet wondered. George Conway had committed suicide, 
hadn't he? Then how could he be buried here in sanctified ground? But when she 
saw the utter neglect the area around the mausoleum had suffered, she 
understood.
The ground upon which George Conway's mausoleum stood had been deconsecrated; 
the rusting fence had been erected not to protect the structure, but to shut it 
away from the rest of the cemetery, and all those who had died in a state of 
grace.
There was another crypt in the mausoleum, next to the one in which George 
Conway's body lay, and Janet assumed it had been George Conway's intention to 
have his wife buried there.
But the little procession passed it by. When the pallbearers stopped several 
yards farther on and set the coffin on boards that had been laid across an open 
grave, Janet saw that there were no other Conways buried nearby.
No two of the graves surrounding Cora Conway's bore the same last name.
Here, in the corner of the cemetery farthest from the church, was the final 
resting place of those who had apparently died as they'd lived—alone. Janet felt 
a great wave of sadness for her husband's aunt. As she struggled against the 
lump rising in her throat and the tears blurring her eyes, she felt a gentle 
hand touch her arm.
She heard a voice then, so soft that for a moment she thought she might be 
imagining it. "She wasn't crazy. She wasn't crazy at all."
The hand dropped away; the voice went silent. With Molly still asleep in her 
arms, Janet turned, but did not see who had spoken. Forcing herself to 
concentrate on the priest's words, she stared down at the open grave.
And once again she felt herself being watched.
The final litany done, the coffin was slowly lowered into the ground. Following 
Ted, Janet stepped forward, stooped to pick up a clod of the soft soil, then 
straightened up. Whispering a final goodbye to the woman she'd barely known, 
whose death three days ago had so totally changed her life, she let the lump of 
earth go. And then, as she looked up, she saw him.
She couldn't be certain how old he was—he might have been anywhere between forty 
and sixty. A thin black man in worn, nearly threadbare clothing, his face 
covered with a grizzled stubble. He stood on the cobbled sidewalk outside the 
fence, in the shade of one of the huge magnolias that spread over the cemetery. 
He was watching the little group gathered around the grave, and although deep 
shadows concealed the expression on the man's dark-skinned face, Janet could 
feel the emotion radiating from him like heat waves.
Hatred.
Hatred, and anger.
For a moment she froze, caught in the strength of the man's silent fury, but 
then he turned and moved away, shambling slowly down the street.
"Jake Cumberland," the same soft voice that had spoken to her only a few minutes 
earlier now said.
Startled, Janet turned to find a woman of about seventy watching the retreating 
figure of Jake Cumberland.
"Do you know him?" Janet asked.
The woman nodded. She was small and neat, wearing a pale lavender dress with a 
matching sweater thrown over her shoulders, despite the warmth of the afternoon. 
"Oh, yes. Everyone knows who Jake is. He lives in a cabin out by the lake. Just 
him and his dogs, and he hardly ever comes to town." She smiled brightly and 
offered Janet a tiny gloved hand. "I'm Alma Morgan. I worked at the Willows 
until they told me I was too old." She glanced down at her dress. "I hope you 
don't mind me wearing this," she went on. "It was Cora's favorite, and I thought 
she'd like it much better than black. Besides, black is much too hot for this 
weather, don't you think?" Without waiting for an answer, she plunged on. 
"You're Janet, aren't you?"
Janet nodded. "Actually, she was my husband's aunt—" she began, but Alma Morgan 
was already speaking again, this time leaning forward and clasping Janet's arm 
tightly.
"She wasn't crazy, you know. Don't pay any attention to what anyone says." Then, 
before Janet had a chance to respond, Alma Morgan was gone. Janet was still 
"trying to decide what the woman's words meant when someone else spoke.
This time it was the middle-aged woman who had been sitting at the back of the 
church. Now that the service was over, she'd pulled her veil back, revealing 
warm blue eyes that watched with amusement as Alma Morgan scurried out of the 
cemetery. "Now, the question—as I see it, anyway—is this: What is the exact 
state of Alma Morgan's sanity?" She smiled. "I'm Corinne Beckwith. My husband is 
the sheriff here."
Moving close to Janet, Ted extended his hand toward Mrs. Beckwith. "I'm Ted 
Conway. This is my wife, Janet. And this," he added, releasing Corinne 
Beckwith's hand to lift Molly out of Janet's arms, "is Molly, the true ruler of 
our house. Can you say hello to the nice lady?" he asked Molly.
Molly, just waking up, happily mumbled something, then demanded to be let down. 
A moment later she was darting off among the headstones, already lost in some 
game she'd made up in her own mind. And Ted, freed of his youngest daughter, set 
about charming Corinne Beckwith.
How can he do it? Janet marveled as she listened to Ted chat with the woman as 
if they'd been friends for years. How can he be so nice when he's sober, and so—
She cut the thought short, refusing to tarnish the moment by anticipating what 
the rest of the day might hold if Ted started drinking. Instead, she tuned into 
what Corinne Beckwith was saying.
"Just because what happened in that horrible old house took place forty years 
ago doesn't mean everyone's forgotten about it, you know." Corinne had fixed her 
attention on Ted as if she suspected he might be trying to hide something from 
her. "This is a small town, and people talk about things forever. And now with 
your aunt gone, we'll probably never know what really did happen that day."
"What 'really did happen'?" Janet repeated, frowning. "She had a nervous 
breakdown when she found her husband, didn't she?"
Corinne Beckwith's brows rose a fraction of an inch. "There was the question of 
the baby, too."
"The baby?" Janet echoed. "What baby?"
"The one Cora Conway gave birth to right after she found her husband hanging 
from the magnolia tree."
Janet's eyes shifted to Ted, and she could see that he was as mystified by 
Corinne's words as she. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm afraid neither one of us 
knows what you're talking about."
The other woman's eyes widened in surprise. "You mean no one ever told you your 
aunt was pregnant?" she asked.
Ted held up his hands as if to fend the question off. "Hey, I was hardly even 
born when all that happened."
Corinne Beckwith had the grace to be embarrassed. "Oh, Lord, what am I doing?" 
she said, disconcerted. "Why would you have known about it? It's probably 
nothing more than small-town gossip anyway," she went on in a rush. "And of all 
the places to bring it up—" She was still floundering when the priest stepped 
easily into the breach.
"And since we don't know what the truth was, maybe we shouldn't speculate about 
it." He gave Corinne a reproachful look, then extended one hand to Ted, the 
other to Janet. "I'm Father MacNeill. I'm so sorry about your aunt."
"It was a lovely mass," Janet began, automatically mouthing the words she knew 
were expected of her. But even as she made conversation with the priest, her 
mind was whirling. A baby? Aunt Cora had a baby? But surely Ted would have heard 
of it, wouldn't he?
"I understand you'll be moving to St. Albans," she heard Father MacNeill say. 
"We're looking forward to having the children in our little school, and all of 
you, of course, in our congregation."
How did he know the children were going to parochial school? Janet wondered. 
They hadn't told anyone. But then she understood—St. Albans wasn't Shreveport. 
Here, obviously, everyone knew everyone else's business. Which meant, she 
realized with a sinking heart, that everyone in town would know about Ted's 
drinking problem the first time he got drunk.
"Well, I'm not exactly sure all of that will be happening," Janet heard her 
husband say, and she instinctively braced herself for what might be coming next. 
Please, Ted, not here, she silently begged. Don't make a scene here. But it was 
already too late.
"I'm afraid I'm what you call a 'lapsed' Catholic," Ted went on. "In fact, I 
haven't been to mass more than half a dozen times since I was a kid."
Father MacNeill's smile faltered. "Perhaps I can change that—" he began.
"Don't count on it," Ted said flatly. "I just don't hold with religion. Never 
have. I don't mind my kids going to your school, but don't count on any of us 
showing up for church on Sundays."
The last trace of Father MacNeill's smile faded away. "Have you found a place to 
live yet?" he asked, and Janet relaxed as the priest seemed to shift the 
conversation away from Ted's lack of religious convictions. But as she listened 
to Ted explain that they would be moving into his uncle's house and converting 
it into a small hotel, Janet saw the priest's expression darken. "A hotel?" he 
repeated when Ted had finished. "Well, I hope you're prepared for a fight on 
that one!"
"A fight?" Ted asked. "Why would there be a fight?"
A veil dropped behind the priest's eyes. "Perhaps I'm wrong," he said quickly. 
Too quickly, it seemed to Janet, thinking that Ted had made a mistake in airing 
his religious views so freely. They'd barely arrived in St. Albans, and already 
he'd made an enemy. "It's just that in a small town, there are always objections 
to change, aren't there?" Father MacNeill said smoothly. He glanced at his 
watch, a gesture Janet interpreted as an excuse to cut the conversation short. 
"Good Heavens, look at the time," he said, betraying himself by putting a little 
too much surprise into his voice. "I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I'm 
running late."
An uncomfortable silence spread over the little group as the priest hurried back 
into the church. Then Ted said, "Well, I guess I put my foot in it with him, 
didn't I?"
I guess you did, Janet thought, but bit back the words before she spoke them.
Corinne Beckwith, though, nodded. "Father MacNeill doesn't like having his toes 
stepped on. Not about religion, or anything else. But it isn't just what you 
said. I think it's your house, too."
"Our house?" Janet repeated. "What could be wrong with fixing up our house? I'd 
think everyone would be thrilled."
"Not around here," Corinne Beckwith replied. "That area's zoned residential, and 
I have a feeling there will be a lot of opposition to giving you a variance."
"But why?" Janet pressed. "If we're bringing money into the town—"
Corinne shook her head. "Money has nothing to do with it." She hesitated, then 
went on. "It's your family. There are a lot of people here who simply don't have 
much fondness for anyone named Conway." Her lips twisted into an apologetic 
semblance of a smile. "Welcome to St. Albans."
 
Father Devlin slowly emerged from his trance of prayer.
The church was silent; Cora Conway's funeral over.
Slowly, every joint and muscle protesting, he pulled himself to his feet and 
haltingly made his way back to the tiny cell he occupied on the top floor of the 
rectory. The cell was his penance, a penance he had assigned himself forty years 
ago, on the day he knew he'd failed. He'd resigned his ministry that day, 
turning over his church and his authority to young Father MacNeill, and 
retreated to his cell to spend whatever remained of his life contemplating his 
own sins.
And offering comfort to the only penitent he would hear.
Cora Conway.
The years had slowly ground by, each seeming longer than the one before, and he 
slowly came to understand that even death was to be withheld from him.
He even understood why: his failure to find a way to absolve Cora Conway, to 
release her from the torture that gripped her mind. Even three days ago, when 
he'd administered the last rites of their faith, he'd still been unable to cast 
out the demons that haunted her.
"Take this," she'd breathed, her clawlike fingers stroking the worn leather of 
her Bible. "It's in here. Everything is in here." Then, just as he was about to 
leave, she'd spoken one more time.
"And this," she'd whispered, her shaking fingers grasping the music box that sat 
on the table by her bed. He'd brought her the music box himself, on the day 
she'd been brought to the Willows, but he'd never heard it play. "Take it," Cora 
had whispered. "Listen to its voices."
He'd slipped the music box into the pocket of his cassock, pronounced a final 
benediction upon Cora's troubled soul, and then departed, the weight of her 
Bible—and her troubles—almost more than he could bear.
Until today he hadn't opened Cora's Bible, but now he carefully lowered himself 
onto the straight-backed chair and reached for the Bible on the table nearby. 
Chair, table, and narrow cot comprised the only furnishings of his cell. He 
pulled the Bible close and, holding it by its cracked spine, allowed it to fall 
open to whatever page upon which God might place His finger.
The Bible opened to the division between the two testaments, where lay the 
history of the generations through which the ancient Bible had passed. The page 
that lay open in front of Father Devlin was filled with careful, cursive script 
of a time gone by, but despite the clarity of the letters, Father Devlin still 
had to strain to read the faded words.
A date had been inscribed: April 16, 1899.
Beneath the date there was a smear of ink, but then the entry began:
 
I shall not survive this evil day, the first line said. The beat of his ancient 
heart quickening, Father Devlin read on....
 
LORETTA VILLIERS CONWAY SAT AT HER DESK, HER BACK AS RAMROD STRAIGHT AS HER 
MOTHER HAD TAUGHT HER WHEN SHE WAS A GIRL, BUT DESPITE THE PERFECTION OF HER 
POSTURE, FOR WHICH SHE WAS FAMOUS THROUGHOUT ST. ALBANS AND THE PARISH, HER HAND 
QUIVERED AS SHE DIPPED HER PEN INTO THE POT OF INK AND SET IT TO THE BLANK PAGE 
OF THE BIBLE SHE KEPT WELL-HIDDEN FROM HER HUSBAND. A DROP OF THE BLACK FLUID 
FELL FROM THE PEN'S POINT AND SPLASHED TO THE PAGE, BUT SO DISTRAUGHT WAS 
LORETTA THAT SHE HARDLY NOTICED IT. SHE CONTINUED WRITING.
 
 
I had thought it was the crowing of the cock that woke me. But it was not the 
cock, as I found out when I stepped out onto the mezzanine of the house that 
Monsignor Melchior built for us.  The cry was louder there, and I recognized it 
at once as coming from the servant girl, and knew her time had come.  Even now I 
remember thinking that perhaps today Bessie would confess the name of the man 
who invaded her.  But when the babies were born, I needed no confession from 
Bessie, for the image of the father was clear on the faces of each of the tiny 
babes.  Bessie, who is very strong, took the second one to her breast 
immediately, and called her Francesca. But Francis—who was my son until I saw 
the faces of his Negro children—took the second child away.
When I came down from Bessie's room—having tended her as best I could—I heard 
noises coming from the cellar below the house. It did not matter, though, for 
already I knew what I must do.  The curse that has befallen this family will not 
be lifted, and I know now that there is but one escape.  I know not weather 
Heaven or Hell awaits me at the end of the noose I shall place around my neck 
when this paragraph is done.  It matters not.  It will be enough that I have 
finally escaped this house.
 
 
AFTER NEATLY WIPING ITS POINT, LORETTA VILLIERS CONWAY SET THE PEN ASIDE. WHEN 
SHE WAS CERTAIN THE INK HAD COMPLETELY DRIED, SHE TOOK THE BIBLE TO BESSIE 
DELACOURT, WHO STILL LAY IN HER BED, HER REMAINING DAUGHTER CRADLED AGAINST HER 
BREAST. SHE SLIPPED THE VOLUME INTO THE TOP DRAWER OF BESSIE'S SCARRED DRESSER, 
THEN TURNED TO THE SERVANT.
SHE BORE BESSIE NO MALICE, FOR IT WAS HER SON WHO HAD BETRAYED HER, NOT THE 
IGNORANT GIRL.
"I HAVE PUT A BIBLE IN YOUR DRAWER," SHE SAID. "WHEN MY SON MARRIES, YOU MUST 
GIVE IT TO HIS BRIDE."
SHE STARTED TOWARD THE DOOR, THEN TURNED BACK AND LOOKED ONCE MORE INTO THE FACE 
OF HER GRANDDAUGHTER. SHE REACHED OUT, ALMOST AS IF TO TOUCH THE TINY CHILD, BUT 
THEN DREW HER HAND AWAY. HER BACK AS STRAIGHT AS EVER, SHE LEFT THE SERVANT GIRL 
ALONE WITH HER BASTARD CHILD.
IN HER OWN ROOM, LORETTA VILLIERS CONWAY PUT ON THE DRESS SHE HAD WORN THE DAY 
SHE MARRIED MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR CONWAY.
SHE TOOK THE VELVET BELT FROM HER FAVORITE DRESSING GOWN.
STANDING ON HER WRITING CHAIR, SHE TIED ONE END OF THE BELT AROUND THE 
CHANDELIER THAT HUNG FROM THE CENTER OF THE CEILING.
SHE TIED THE OTHER END AROUND HER OWN NECK.
SHE CHECKED BOTH KNOTS CAREFULLY.
SATISFIED THAT THEY WOULD HOLD, LORETTA VILLIERS CONWAY STEPPED OFF THE SEAT OF 
HER WRITING CHAIR.
NO SOUND, NO CRY OF FEAR OR PAIN DISTURBED THE SILENCE THAT FILLED THE ROOM AS 
LORETTA VILLIERS CONWAY DIED.
 
 
Father Devlin's eyes remained fixed on the last words Loretta Villiers Conway 
had written a century earlier. So George Conway was not the first of his family 
to commit the mortal—irredeemable—sin of suicide. There had been rumors, of 
course. In his younger days, when he'd first arrived in St. Albans, Father 
Devlin had heard the stories, but he'd refused to credit them, preaching instead 
against wagging tongues. But now, as the words on the page imprinted themselves 
on his mind, the old priest finally understood that the stories had been more 
than mere gossip; that the horror that had befallen George and Cora Conway had 
somehow happened before. "'For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God,'" he 
muttered softly to himself, quoting the fifth verse of the twentieth chapter of 
Exodus, "'visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third 
and fourth generation.'" But how had it begun?
He reached for the Bible once more, then stopped, his fingers trembling in 
midair. Did he really want to know? Loretta Conway had died a century ago—there 
was nothing he could do now except pray for her soul. But even that would do no 
good, for by her very act, Loretta—like George Conway—had condemned herself to 
eternal damnation.
The exhaustion of the day, along with his nearly ninety years, caught up with 
Father Devlin, and his hand dropped back to his lap.
Some other day.
Perhaps some other day he would pursue the matter further. But for now his 
energy was gone, and his cot beckoned to him. Putting Cora Conway's Bible away, 
he surrendered himself to the oblivion of sleep.


 
 
CHAPTER 7
 
 
You guys really gonna live here?" The voice startled Jared so much he dropped 
his end of the mattress he and Kim were wrestling out of the rented U-Haul, 
eliciting a howl of outrage from his sister. As she struggled to get a grip on 
the mattress, she looked up in annoyance at the boy who had just spoken. He 
looked to be about the same age as Jared, but was a couple of inches shorter, 
wiry almost to the point of scrawniness, and had a thatch of light brown hair 
falling over his forehead. The boy grinned at her and grabbed one corner of the 
unwieldy object. He was wearing torn jeans and a sweatshirt that had had the 
sleeves torn off. "I'm Luke Roberts," he said. "You want me to help you get this 
up on the porch?"
"How about all the way up to my room?" Jared countered. When Luke cast a quick 
glance at the house before answering, Jared asked, "What's wrong? You're not 
scared, are you?"
" 'Course I'm not," Luke replied a little too quickly.
"You ever been inside the house?"
Again Luke glanced at the looming shape of the huge Victorian. He shook his 
head. "I got an uncle who says he was in it once," he offered.
"You want to see it?" Jared put just enough of a challenge in his voice to be 
certain Luke would be unable to refuse.
"Sure," the other boy replied.
Together, the three teenagers wrestled the mattress up to the second floor, 
where they dropped it onto the box spring that Kim and Jared had already brought 
up.
"How many rooms does it have?" Luke asked.
Jared shrugged. "I don't know—maybe twenty, I guess. We're going to turn it into 
a hotel."
They were back out on the landing, and Luke gazed down into the vast entry hall 
below. "Who'd want to stay here?"
"Well, it's not going to look like this," Kim replied. "Dad says it won't be 
ready for at least six months."
"I still bet nobody'll stay," Luke said. "Not after everything that's happened." 
Jared and Kim eyed each other uneasily, reading each other's thoughts: Do we 
really want to hear? But before either of them could reply, Luke was already 
telling them, "Sometimes you can hear a baby crying. And lots of people have 
seen that guy who hung himself."
"That was my dad's uncle," Jared said.
If Luke heard the hint of warning in Jared's voice, he chose to ignore it. "They 
say he's still here. Looking for the baby."
Kim and Jared exchanged another quick glance, both of them remembering the words 
they'd overheard at the funeral that morning. "Father MacNeill says nobody knows 
if it was even true that my dad's aunt was pregnant."
Luke Roberts rolled his eyes scornfully. "Father Mack wouldn't even admit his 
own mother was ever pregnant! And he sure wouldn't ever believe a woman would 
kill her own baby."
Kim's fingers flew involuntarily to the cross that hung from her neck, clutching 
it tightly. "How do you know Aunt Cora did that?" she asked.
"Everybody knows it," Luke Roberts replied. "Just because they never found the 
baby—"
The cross suddenly felt hot, and Kim jerked her hand away. "If they never found 
it, how does anyone know she killed it? How does anyone know there even was a 
baby?"
For the first time, a look of uncertainty clouded Luke's face, but he answered: 
"If there wasn't a baby, how come you can hear it cry at night? And how come it 
cries if its ma didn't kill it? I'm telling you, everybody knows what happened. 
My uncle says—"
Kim felt a surge of anger. How could this boy know what had happened here? He 
hadn't been here! And how come he kept saying "everybody knows"? "I bet none of 
it happened," she cut in before Luke could repeat whatever his uncle had said. 
"What have you ever seen yourself? What have you actually heard? And if you were 
close enough to see or hear anything, what were you doing? Just because nobody 
was living here doesn't mean it wasn't private property!" Luke Roberts's face 
flushed scarlet, and Kim could see his right hand clench into a fist. "What are 
you going to do, hit me?" she asked, her eyes locking onto his as if daring him 
to raise his fist.
Luke, shocked into silence by Kim's outburst, lurched back against the 
balustrade, lost his balance, and tumbled over. As he screamed with terror, the 
fingers of his right hand grabbed on to the railing. For a second he hung 
suspended from one arm, his left hand groping wildly before closing on one of 
the posts that supported the banister, but he quickly began to lose his grip, 
and for an instant that seemed to stretch into an eternity, his eyes—glazed with 
fear—fastened on Kim.
She knew that if he fell, the image of his eyes, terrified and accusing, would 
be burned into her memory forever. The horror of the moment paralyzed her, but 
in her mind she screamed out to Jared to help Luke.
As if he'd heard her, Jared darted to the railing, his own strong hands closing 
on Luke's wrists before the other boy's grip gave way. Then he hauled Luke back 
over the balustrade.
"I—I'm sorry," Kim stammered. "I didn't mean—"
But now that he was safe, Luke's terror was transmuting into anger. "What the 
hell did I do? I was just telling you what I heard! Christ—I coulda broken my 
neck!" As he started down the stairs, he glowered back at Kim. "Maybe your aunt 
wasn't the only crazy one around here."
Before Kim could reply, he had slammed the front door behind him.


 
 
CHAPTER 8
 
 
The silence that fell over the old house that night was far deeper than any of 
its occupants had ever experienced before, and except for Molly—who fell asleep 
almost the moment Janet laid her in her crib—each of them lay awake for a long 
time. They listened to the silence.
No insects chirped.
No animals rustled in the darkness outside.
Even the ancient frame of the house itself uttered no sound to disturb the 
quiet.
Yet each of them heard echoes of voices in the silence; each of them found eyes 
watching them from the darkness.
For Janet, it was the eyes of Jake Cumberland, reaching out to her from the deep 
shadows of the magnolia tree outside the cemetery. They held her in thrall. And 
the voice was Alma Morgan's, telling her that Cora Conway had been perfectly 
sane. But Corinne Beckwith's voice, too, echoed softly in the night, whispering 
of a baby who would have been her husband's cousin—if it had lived.
If it had ever existed at all.
Her eyes open, Janet scanned the darkness, as if somehow the truth of what might 
have happened in this house forty years ago might be hidden in the black folds 
of the night.
But the darkness, like the silence, kept its secrets.
As the night crept on, and sleep continued to elude her, Janet felt an urge to 
reach out to Ted, to slip her hand into his if for no other reason that to feel 
the comfort of knowing she wasn't alone in the silence and the darkness. But it 
had been so long since she'd welcomed his touch that she could no longer bring 
herself to reach out to him. When sleep finally embraced her, she lay with her 
back to her husband.
 
For Ted, it was the darkly penetrating eyes of Father MacNeill that glowered at 
him out of the darkness, the priest's voice that echoed in the silence. "A 
hotel? ... I hope you're prepared for a fight on that one!" But far more than 
the threatening words, it was the look he'd seen in the cleric's eyes that kept 
Ted awake in the silence and darkness of the night. The look flared up the 
moment Ted told him he wouldn't be coming to his church, wouldn't be listening 
to him preach every Sunday morning, and though the priest only let him see it 
for a few seconds, it was a look Ted had seen before.
It was the same look he'd seen in Frank Gilman's eyes the day he'd lost his job.
The same look he'd seen in Tony's eyes just before he'd walked out of the bar to 
go to Gilman's office.
The same look he'd seen in the eyes of so many people.
All the men who'd ever fired him.
All the others who'd refused to hire him.
All the bartenders who'd poured him drinks.
All the men who once had been his friends.
He'd seen it in the eyes of his father.
He'd even seen it in the eyes of his son.
It was a look he'd learned to recognize long ago, when he was still a boy. A 
look that told him he did not belong, that there was something everyone else 
knew, something everyone else shared, that they would never share with him.
For a while, in the first years of his marriage, he hadn't noticed it in Janet's 
eyes. She'd hidden it well at first, but as the years went on he'd started 
catching glimpses of it. She tried to hide it, but he'd seen it clearly enough.
A look of superiority.
No understanding, nor pity, nor even sympathy.
Only superiority. And something else.
It rose up out of the darkness, and though he'd never let himself recognize it 
before, in the silence of the night he finally knew exactly what it was he'd 
seen so clearly in the priest's eyes that afternoon.
And not just the priest's eyes, but everyone else's as well.
Contempt.
Their eyes had always said it all:
You don't belong here.
You're not part of us.
We don't want you here.
It had been that way all his life, for as long as he could remember. From the 
time his mother left him when he was only a baby, until his father died while he 
was still in school.
Through all the places he'd never fit in, all the jobs where they'd found 
reasons to fire him.
Never, ever, had he felt like he belonged.
But here—in this house—he did belong. This house had been his uncle's house, and 
his grandfather's house, and his great-grandfather's house. And now it was his 
house.
And he belonged!
A burning fury at the injustices he'd suffered began to glow inside Ted Conway. 
As he lay in the quiet of the house—his house—he swore he would never let it 
happen again.
This time, he would show them all.
He would restore this old wreck—make it more beautiful than it was when it was 
built. And he would have his hotel.
He would have it, no matter who tried to stop him, and it would succeed. It 
would succeed so well that no one—not the priest, not his wife, not his son, not 
anyone—would ever dare hold him in contempt again.
Reaching out in the darkness, he slid open the drawer of the nightstand. His 
fingers closed on the pint of bourbon he'd hidden away that afternoon.
Now, in the silence and darkness of the night, he opened it and held the bottle 
to his lips.
I'll show them, he swore to himself once more as the warmth of the fiery liquid 
fueled the rage inside him. I'll show them all!
 
It was Luke Roberts's eyes that kept Kim awake that night, for every time she 
closed her eyes, she saw them again. Saw the terror, and the accusation.
And heard his words in the silence that the darkness had brought: "If there 
wasn't a baby, how come you can hear it cry at night? And how come it cries if 
its ma didn't kill it?"
Could any of it be true? Of course not! He'd just been trying to scare her. But 
still she found herself listening, straining to hear....
What?
She didn't know.
As the night stretched on and the silence grew heavier, she strained to listen 
for the sounds that had always lulled her to sleep at night: crickets chirping, 
frogs calling for their mates.
Even the whine of mosquitoes or the bark of the dog next door—the barking that 
Scout had instantly echoed, waking everyone in the house—would have been welcome 
this night.
So would the droning of traffic in the street, or the eerie hoot of an owl 
hunting in the night.
But to hear nothing at all...
She tossed and turned restlessly until Muffin, curled on the pillow beside her, 
angrily swiped her, then moved to the foot of the bed. And finally, blessedly, 
she fell into sleep.
And heard it.
It was a scream such as she'd never heard before; an unearthly wail that tore 
the mantle of sleep from her with enough force to jerk her upright in bed.
Her heart was pounding and her skin was clammy with a cold sheen of sweat.
But the night was still so silent that she knew at once the scream she'd heard 
existed only in her mind.
She lay back down, curled tightly on her side.
And saw it.
A creature, blacker even than the night, crouched on the far side of her room, 
as if about to lunge for her.
She froze, too afraid even to breathe, and then, out of the silence, she heard 
the words whispered to her by her dying aunt: "It will protect you.... Don't 
ever take it off."
Her fingers closed around the cross, and she felt her terror begin to ebb.
A shadow, she thought. It's only a shadow!
Propping herself on her side, she saw that the moon was just beginning to rise, 
its silvery glow barely seeping through the windows, whose years of accumulated 
grime had yet to be washed away.
And on the windowsill stood Muffin, her back arched, her tail sticking straight 
up.
As Kim watched, the cat paced the length of the windowsill.
"Muffin," Kim called out quietly. "Come on, Muffin. Come back to bed."
The cat hissed in the darkness, then turned and stalked back the other way.
"What is it?" Kim asked, getting out of bed and going to the cat. "What's wrong? 
What's out there?" Kim pressed close to the window, straining to see through the 
heavy smudges that coated them, at the same time reaching out to soothe Muffin 
with a gentle stroke.
The cat hissed, and took another swipe at her. This time, its claws left three 
stinging welts on the back of her hand. Then, as if to make its desires crystal 
clear, the cat struck hard at the windowpane.
"Now?" Kim whispered. "Why do you have to go out now?" She reached out as if to 
stroke the cat again, but when Muffin hissed a warning, she quickly snatched her 
hand back. "All right," she said as she fumbled with the window latch, 
struggling to work it loose. "If it's that important—" The latch came free, and 
she jerked the window open.
In an instant the cat was gone.
Kim pulled the window wide and peered out into the night, searching for some 
sign of her pet. "Muffin?" she called. "Muffin, come back!"
But the silence of the night swallowed her words as thoroughly as if she'd never 
spoken them.
And then, just as she had when she'd awakened a few minutes earlier, she froze, 
her heart beating with cold terror.
Nothing had changed—nothing she could see or hear, at least.
The night was still silent, and even the light of the moon could barely 
penetrate the darkness.
But there was something out there.
Kim could feel it.
Something—or someone—was out there.
Out there, watching her.


 
 
CHAPTER 9
 
 
Every muscle in Jake Cumberland's body tensed. He hadn't moved in nearly six 
hours, not since nightfall had let him steal out of the woods on the east side 
of the property and move close to the old carriage house, where he hid himself 
so completely in the deep shadows that even someone passing within a few feet of 
him would never have known he was there.
There he'd remained, keeping his silent vigil, watching the house.
He hadn't really believed it when he'd first heard someone say people were gonna 
be moving back into the old house. After all, everyone knew there weren't any 
more Conways, not since the old woman had died. But it had turned out that 
everybody was wrong.
There were still Conways around—five of 'em, anyways.
Right after he'd heard the talk—the same day the old lady died—he'd made his way 
along the path through the bottomland to a place where he could keep a watch on 
the house, and sure enough, there they were. He'd recognized them the minute he 
saw them—'specially the man. Everything about him had Conway written all over 
it.
It wasn't just the dark hair and blue eyes.
It was the way he moved, too, and held his head.
Jake could practically smell it on him.
He'd watched while they all went into the house, never moving, just like when he 
was out hunting and had to hold stone-still for hours at a time, less'n the game 
would get scared off. He'd waited until they'd come back out of the house and 
gotten back in their car and gone away, but even as he watched the car 
disappear, he knew they'd be back, knew it the same way he always knew just 
where to set his traps, even on nights when it was so dark he couldn't hardly 
see a thing.
Then, when he'd gone to the funeral this afternoon, he'd seen them again. 
'Course, he hadn't gone inside the church or the cemetery—his mama had warned 
him about churches when he was still so small he didn't even go to school—and he 
hadn't never liked cemeteries. Sometimes you had to go into them, though, but 
only when you needed something, and even then you only went in the middle of the 
night when the moon was high and its silvery light made everything look like it 
was made out of pewter, like the mug his grandmama had left him. It still stood 
on the windowsill above the sink in the cabin. Though he didn't really remember 
his grandmama, he thought about her every time he used the mug, peering through 
its glass bottom while he drank.
"It's so you can see your enemies, even when you're drinking," his mama had told 
him. "Your grandmama always said it was important to keep an eye on your 
enemies, so they won't catch you by surprise."
Sometimes, when his mama was working her magic, Jake watched her peering into 
the mug, and knew that even when she wasn't drinking from it, the window in the 
bottom of the mug let her see what her enemies were doing, no matter where they 
were. "They can't hide, Jake," she'd said. "Not as long as you got the mug." 
Even now, whenever Jake drank from the mug, his eyes stayed open as he searched 
for any threat that might lie beyond the glass.
But never had he seen any Conways through the bottom of the mug. In fact, he'd 
almost wondered if maybe he'd been wrong before. But when he'd hung around 
outside the fence of the cemetery this morning, there they were, the man helping 
carry the old lady's coffin, and the rest of them following after.
He stayed and watched them bury the old lady, and tried to work some of his 
mama's magic on them, but knew it wouldn't work. You couldn't just work the 
magic—you had to have a lot of stuff first, but he'd still tried. And he was 
pretty sure the woman, at least, felt him give her the eye, 'cause she'd looked 
straight at him a couple of times. But he hadn't flinched. No, sir. He'd stayed 
right where he was.
Then, after they all left the cemetery, he'd come around through the woods and 
kept right on watching.
They'd come back here and started taking their stuff out of the truck and 
putting it into the house. Only then had he decided that it was true, they 
really were planning to stay.
Shoulda burnt that place down, he thought. Shoulda burnt it down years ago, 
Finally he'd gone home and waited for nightfall, when it would be safe to creep 
back to the house and search for the things he'd need to make his mama's magic 
work.
Jake knew what he needed—knew exactly what he had to do.
And ever since night had fallen over St. Albans, he'd been there, hidden by the 
shadows, holding perfectly still in the darkness, waiting.
The hours crept by. He could feel the people inside the house, almost see them 
tossing in their troubled sleep.
His ears, sharpened by a life spent tracking the creatures that roamed the 
night, could almost hear them breathing, and when, in the small hours of the 
night, the cat leaped from the windowsill, he heard it clearly, even though its 
paws struck the ground so lightly they made almost no sound.
As the cat moved through the darkness, Jake tensed, waiting.
His ears and eyes tracked it as it moved through the area, exploring the 
wilderness that had closed around the house as the years had passed. He waited 
patiently, knowing that soon it would move in his direction.
Perhaps it would even sense him.
But if he held still—if he made no sound at all—
Yes!
It was coming toward him now.
Jake held his breath as the cat stopped, tensing as it caught his scent. For an 
instant he thought it was going to bolt, but then, as he silently willed it 
forward, it dropped low to the ground and began slinking nearer.
Jake waited, every muscle in his body vibrating with the strain of holding 
perfectly still.
The cat crept closer, its tail twitching.
It paused once more, when it was still just beyond his reach. But then, its 
curiosity overcoming its caution, it moved still closer.
Closer...
Close enough!
So quickly the cat had no time to react, Jake's arms snaked through the 
darkness.
His huge hands closed around the cat's neck.


 
 
CHAPTER 10
 
 
You promise you'll look for Muffin?" Kim asked when Janet pulled the Toyota to a 
stop in front of St. Ignatius School the next morning.
"Will you stop worrying?" Jared said as he slid out of the backseat. "She's a 
cat. They do what they want to do. She'll come home when she feels like it."
"But what if she tried to go back to Shreveport?" Kim fretted.
"I'm sure she didn't do that," Janet assured her. "Jared's probably right. But I 
promise I'll keep an eye out for her." She looked at her watch. "Now let's get 
you two enrolled so I can get back to the house before your father—" She cut her 
words short, but it was too late. She saw Kim and Jared glance at each other and 
was certain they were supplying the words she hadn't uttered: starts drinking.
But maybe, just maybe, he'd really meant what he said about making this work, 
about starting over again in St. Albans. When she woke up this morning, Ted was 
already out of bed, and for a fleeting moment—and it had only happened because 
she wasn't quite awake yet—she felt the same despair that had washed over her at 
least half a dozen times in the last few months when she woke up to find that 
Ted hadn't come to bed at all.
Mostly, she'd found him passed out on the sofa in the living room.
Once, she found him in the bathtub.
And once he hadn't come home at all. That morning, she'd been on the verge of 
calling the police when he'd phoned her with a story—which she chose to believe, 
although she knew it was undoubtedly a lie—about having worked most of the night 
and finally collapsing in one of the rooms at the Majestic.
But this morning, Janet had found him downstairs ripping up the worn carpet that 
covered the dining room floor, in order to expose the intricately inlaid 
hardwood hidden beneath it. "Will you look at this?" he crowed. "It's 
incredible! Oak inlaid with cherry, walnut, and God only knows what else. All it 
needs is sanding and refinishing." He kept working while she put together a 
makeshift breakfast, and when she left to enroll Jared and Kimberley at St. 
Ignatius, he was still at it. Molly, in her playpen, had been watching her 
father work and happily played with a scrap of carpet he'd given her. And for 
the first time in years, Janet allowed herself to hope that maybe this time 
things really would change. But even as she let that tiny ray of hope into her 
consciousness, she reminded herself that he'd made dozens of promises before. 
None of them had ever been kept.
"Come on," she said now, starting up the steps to the school. "No matter what's 
happening at home, I still need to be there. I'll keep an eye out for Muffin. I 
promise."
The moment he stepped through the door, Jared's worst fears about what St. 
Ignatius might be like were instantly validated. The front door opened onto a 
long, narrow corridor lit only by a few old-fashioned glass globes that hung at 
the intersections where other hallways led off to the right and left. The walls 
were wainscoted, but the wood and plaster had been painted the same color—a sort 
of beige that looked yellowish and dirty. The floor was covered with a dark 
linoleum unbroken by any pattern, unless you could count a worn strip down the 
middle through which the wood of the floor beneath was starting to show. Jared 
decided the worn strip didn't count.
As they made their way to the office, Jared and Kim glanced uneasily at each 
other, but neither said anything.
Half an hour later, after their mother had left, the twins started up the stairs 
to their new homeroom. "You'll like Sister Clarence," Father Bernard, the priest 
who ran St. Ignatius, had assured them. "She's one of our best teachers, and all 
the children love her."
"Not exactly like Shreveport, is it?" Jared observed as they emerged from the 
stairwell onto the second-floor landing. Ahead of them stretched a duplicate of 
the corridor on the first floor, except this one contained a bank of lockers, 
two of which had been assigned to them. "They'll need to have locks, of course," 
Father Bernard had told Janet. "We require combination locks, and the 
combinations must be on file in the office." He'd fixed Jared with a hard look, 
as if he expected his charges to try to get away with as much as they could. "We 
do spot checks, and if the combination has been changed, it is an automatic 
one-week suspension."
Now, as Jared eyed the lockers, he grinned at his sister. " 'Spose if I put a 
padlock with a key on my locker, I could get kicked out completely?"
Kim resisted the urge to laugh. "Let's just make the best of it. Mom's got 
enough problems without having to worry about us."
Jared sighed. "I know. But I'd still like to see the look on Father Bernard's 
face if he found a lock he couldn't open."
They found their room halfway down the hall, and Jared pulled the door open for 
Kim. As they stepped through, the black-clad figure who had been writing on the 
blackboard turned and impaled them with a stare that knifed through steel-rimmed 
glasses.
"I am Sister Clarence," she said.
"I'm Jared Con—" Jared began, but the nun cut him off.
"I know who you are." She indicated two seats in the second row with the 
slightest nod of her cowled head. "We are discussing the role of the Vatican in 
World War Two," she went on. "You've already missed the first two weeks of 
school. I'll expect you to have caught up with the reading by tomorrow."
As she turned back to the blackboard, Jared and Kim slipped into their seats at 
the old-fashioned school desks. Directly behind Jared sat Luke Roberts, who 
slipped Jared a note. Jared unfolded the note and read the scrawled message.
Welcome to St. Ignoramus.
Suppressing a smile, Jared refolded the note and passed it across to Kim. A 
nearly inaudible giggle escaped her lips. She silenced it a moment too late.
"You will share that note with the rest of the class, Kimberley," Sister 
Clarence pronounced, her eyes boring into Kim, whose face reddened.
"I—It doesn't really—"
"Stand up," Sister Clarence ordered. "In this school, we always stand when we 
are spoken to, or when we wish to speak."
Her knees trembling, her flush deepening, Kim got to her feet.
"Read the note," the nun ordered.
Kim bit her Up, and her eyes darted to her brother, who winked at her. "'Welcome 
to Saint Ignoramus,'" she read, her voice barely audible.
"I can't hear you," Sister Clarence said, each word a chip of ice. Kim's face 
burned. The nun certainly hadn't had any trouble hearing her a minute ago, when 
all she'd done was utter an almost silent giggle.
She read the note again—more loudly—into the hush that had fallen over the room.
"And you think that's funny," Sister Clarence said, her voice making it clear 
that her words were not a question.
Kim said nothing.
"Does anyone else think it's funny?" Sister Clarence asked.
Though Kim dared not even glance around, she knew that no one else in the 
classroom had so much as moved a finger, let alone raised a hand. Then, from the 
corner of her eye, she saw Jared stand.
"I do," he said. Kim saw the surprise—and cold fury—in Sister Clarence's eyes as 
they shifted to Jared.
"Both of you think it's funny to mock the school?"
"It's just a pun," Jared said. "I bet lots of people call it that."
"It is disrespectful, and it will not be tolerated. Is that clear?"
Jared hesitated, then bobbed his head a fraction of an inch. "Yes."
" 'Yes, Sister Clarence,'" the nun corrected him.
Kim could almost feel the anger rising in her brother. Don't, she silently 
begged. Just let it go!
The quiet in the room stretched out as Jared and the teacher confronted each 
other.
Everyone waited.
Once again Kim reached out with her mind and begged her brother not to say 
anything more.
Sister Clarence's eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses glittered dangerously.
Jared's jaw tightened. Kim saw his lips starting to form words she knew would 
only dig him in deeper than he already was. Don't, Jared! she pleaded a third 
time, praying that this time he would pick up her thought and heed it.
Just let it go! The moment seemed to stretch out endlessly, but then, as clearly 
as if he'd spoken aloud, Kim heard Jared's voice inside her head.
Okay, he said. But I hate this. I really hate it!
A split second later Jared spoke aloud, his voice betraying none of the anger 
Kim had heard in his unvoiced thought. "Yes, Sister Clarence," he said softly.
Sister Clarence's gaze shifted back to Kim. "I've decided to overlook this, 
since this is your first day. But in the future such things will not be 
overlooked. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Sister Clarence," Kim said, her chastened voice little more than a 
whisper.
Sister Clarence's response stung like the lash of a whip. "Speak up!"
"Yes, Sister Clarence," Kim repeated, her face burning as tears welled in her 
eyes.
For the rest of the hour, Kim and Jared sat silently at their desks, trying to 
concentrate on the lesson the nun was teaching. But for both of them, their 
humiliation kept replaying itself in their minds.
It doesn't matter, Kim finally told herself. It's just different here, and I'll 
get used to it.
Jared, though, was absolutely sure he'd never get used to it. Never.
 
Janet Conway climbed down off the ladder, automatically arching her back and 
stretching first in one direction, then the other. As the ache in her spine and 
burning knots in her shoulders eased, she surveyed the results of her two hours 
at the top of the ladder, where she'd twisted herself into contortions to which 
her body had been mounting increasingly strenuous objections. But already she 
knew that no matter how much pain she had to put herself through for the next 
day or two, in the end it would be worth it. Already, light—the clear, clean 
light of the fall morning—was streaming through the glass roof and the upper 
third of the conservatory's northern and eastern walls. When she was finished, 
the room would provide her with the studio that until a few days ago she had 
only dreamed about. With sunlight coming in from three directions as well as 
from above, there would never be a time when she wouldn't be able to get exactly 
the illumination she wanted on her canvas. Just the thought of spending hours 
here with her paints and brushes, her easel and canvas—bringing to life the 
visions she'd always seen in her mind—quickened her pulse and made her fairly 
tingle with excitement and anticipation.
But as her eyes moved beyond the windows to the view outside the enormous glass 
walls, her excitement gave way to dark trepidation.
She told herself there was nothing ominous here. Just the tangle of vegetation, 
the thick, creeping kudzu that snaked out of the forest to slowly engulf the 
property, banking up against the carriage house, swallowing up the shrubs that 
had once had their own distinctive shapes and colors but were now slowly being 
strangled under the thick tentacles of twisted vines. Even the enormous oaks, 
willows, and magnolias were on the verge of succumbing to the tendrils, which 
had reached all but their highest branches; soon they, too, would be choked by 
the invader.
Yet even the devastation brought by the kudzu couldn't completely erase the 
vision in Janet's mind. Despite the decades of grime that still fogged the lower 
portion of the windows, she could see the possibilities. Tomorrow—maybe even 
this afternoon—she would start hacking away at the encroaching foliage. She'd 
start with the trees; once she cut through the thick stems of the vines, cutting 
off their connections to their roots, they would quickly die off, and pulling 
them down would be much easier. She would cut those that were climbing over the 
house, too. And this weekend Jared could begin clearing off the rest of the 
property, stripping the kudzu away. The lawn, of course, had been ruined years 
ago, but some of the larger shrubs might yet be saved. And halfway between the 
conservatory and the woods, she could just make out the shape of what looked 
like a fountain. In her mind's eye she stripped away the tangle of vines to 
reveal...
What?
Marble! Yes, of course. It would be made of marble—though limestone would be 
almost as good—carved into some wonderful pattern over which the water would 
shimmer and ripple as it flowed. She could almost see the plumes of water that 
would rise from the restored fountain, nearly hear the gentle sound of its spray 
splashing back into the catchment basin. Perhaps they could even put some 
goldfish in it.
The vision took on more details, and Janet could see the beginnings of a 
painting. Or better yet, a trompe l'oeil mural big enough to cover an entire 
wall of one of the house's huge rooms. It would depict the grounds as they would 
have looked when the house was new, when Ted's ancestors had first built it. The 
gardens would have been formal, she was sure, with perfectly manicured box 
hedges bordering beds of azaleas and roses. A profusion of flowers, in every 
color of the rainbow. There would have been furniture, too—white-painted wrought 
iron, upon which graceful women holding parasols would lounge.
Pointillism. That was it. And perhaps she would give it a French cast, to fit 
with the New Orleans influences of the town. She would do it in the style of 
Georges Seurat, filling it with light and texture and—
A sudden sharp rap on one of the French doors leading to the terrace outside the 
conservatory jerked her out of her reverie, startling her so badly she almost 
knocked over the ladder upon which she'd been so precariously perched only a few 
minutes before. "Hello?" a voice called from outside. "Is anybody here?"
Steadying the ladder, Janet went to the French doors, fumbled with the lock, 
then pushed the handle down. When she pulled on the door, the upper corner stuck 
fast, the frame warped so badly that the glass threatened to break.
"Stop!" the voice from outside called. "Let me push from out here!"
Janet let the door go fully shut. Then, as she tried to ease it open again, the 
person outside struck the upper corner sharply and the door came free.
"I hate these old French doors," Corinne Beckwith announced as she stepped into 
the conservatory. "The frames always stick. This fancy stuff might have been 
okay a hundred and fifty years ago, but give me something nice and modern, 
preferably in anodized aluminum. No paint, no rust, no upkeep." She gazed around 
at the interior of the conservatory, and Janet could practically see her adding 
up the hours it would take just to clean this one room.
"The others are just as bad," Janet said.
The other woman shook her head slowly. "I don't know." She sighed. "I guess it's 
nice that there are people who want to take on projects like this, but if you 
want to know the truth, I've got a feeling that folks around here are only going 
to take your trying to restore this place as proof that they're right."
"Right?" Janet echoed, unsure what the sheriff's wife meant. "Right about what?"
Corinne Beckwith grinned. "That all the Conways are crazy!"
Corinne's words touched a nerve in Janet. "If that's why you came over here—" 
She bristled, but Corinne raised her hands as if to fend off her words.
"I'm sorry—I was just trying to make a joke." Her smile disappeared. "I really 
am sorry. It wasn't a very good joke, and I suspect you're not really in the 
mood for jokes anyway. Actually, the real reason I came over was to talk about 
your project. If you're really going to try to turn this place into an inn, 
you're going to need all the help you can get. And Father MacNeill's just going 
to be the beginning, although frankly I'm not sure exactly how you're going to 
get around him."
"But all he said was that there'd be some people who'd object."
Corinne's brows rose in a cynical arch. "That's code, Janet." Her eyes darted 
around as if searching for an unseen eavesdropper, and her voice dropped a 
notch. "Ray—that's my husband—would kill me if he knew I was telling you this, 
but Father MacNeill never does anything up front. He doesn't have to, since 
practically everyone who's anyone in this town is Catholic, and if they didn't 
go to St. Ignatius School themselves, then their kids are going there now. And 
they do what Father Mack wants them to do. If he said there would be objections, 
it's because he's planning to make very sure that there are."
Janet cocked her head quizzically. "I gather you're not Catholic?"
Corinne shrugged. "I still go to St. Ignatius because Ray does. But I like to 
think for myself." Once again she glanced around as if searching for invisible 
ears. "Ray doesn't always like it, but that's the way I am."
Janet decided she liked Corinne Beckwith. "May I get you a cup of coffee?"
"If I can drink it while you give me a tour of this place. I've been dying to 
see it ever since I was a little girl and heard all the stories."
For nearly an hour the two women wandered through the house, stopping briefly to 
play with Molly and pet Scout, who seemed to have appointed himself the little 
girl's baby-sitter.
When they were finally back in the kitchen and Janet had split the last of the 
coffee between them, Corinne Beckwith offered up her opinion of the house, and 
there was no trace in her voice of the enthusiasm expressed by her words. "Well, 
your husband's right. This place would make one hell of an inn."
"If you agree with him, why doesn't it sound like it?"
Corinne's lips pursed thoughtfully. "It's none of my business, but does the 
trust have enough money to pay for everything that needs to be done?"
Janet nodded.
"And your husband can run a hotel right, as long as he—" Corinne cut her words 
short, and looked as if she wished she could recall them.
She knows, Janet thought. She knows about Ted's problem. Janet felt a flush of 
anger. Who had told her? Or had she gone digging around, snooping into things 
that weren't any of her business, looking for something—Janet cut off her 
thoughts as sharply as Corinne Beckwith had stopped her own words a moment ago, 
reminding herself again that St. Albans wasn't Shreveport; here, everyone knew 
everyone else's business. There was no point in denying what everyone already 
knew. "As long as he stays sober?" she asked, finishing Corinne's question. When 
Corinne nodded, Janet took a deep breath, then let it out in a sigh. "As long as 
he stays sober, yes, he can run a hotel. And I hope he does stay sober. So let's 
assume he does. And let's assume we can get the variances we need. What else is 
there?"
"The house itself, and your husband's family," Corinne told her, deciding to 
match Janet's honesty with her own and confirming Janet's suspicions about the 
St. Albans grapevine. "I can tell you that since yesterday the phones have been 
ringing off the hook. And apparently what I told you about your aunt being 
pregnant wasn't just gossip. There must be half a dozen people who remember that 
she was pregnant when her husband died. But when they found her, she wasn't. The 
assumption was the shock of finding her husband's corpse induced labor, and she 
delivered the baby that morning." When Janet said nothing, Corinne went on. "The 
problem, as far as I can tell, is that no trace of the baby was ever found. 
There is no record of it having been born."
"Perhaps it was stillborn," Janet suggested.
"Even with a stillbirth, there should be a record. And there's something else. 
You remember the man outside the cemetery yesterday. Jake Cumberland?"
Janet almost shuddered. "I'll never forget him. The way he was looking at us. It 
was like he hated us, even though he's never met us."
"He probably does," Corinne replied. "His mother was the housekeeper for George 
and Cora Conway. And she disappeared that day, too."
"Disappeared?" Janet repeated. "I'm not sure what you mean."
"I'm not sure what I mean, either," Corinne told her. "I heard a lot of things, 
and I don't know what to make of it all. Apparently Jake's mother—her name was 
Eulalie—was some kind of voodoo priestess."
"Oh, come on," Janet began, but Corinne held up a hand.
"Let me finish. From what I've heard, Eulalie thought there was something 
'evil'—that was the exact word she used, according to everyone I talked to—going 
on here, and she decided to put a stop to it. Apparently she made a doll."
"A voodoo doll?" Janet echoed, her voice incredulous. "Come on, Corinne, nobody 
believes in that stuff!"
"Actually, a lot of people believe in it," Corinne replied. "And certainly 
Eulalie Cumberland did."
Janet's lips tightened. "I can't believe anyone would think—"
"Just let me finish," Corinne interrupted. "Nobody I talked to knew the details, 
but apparently the doll was found. And there had been a fire in the yard the 
night before. And after George and Cora Conway were found, Eulalie and Cora's 
baby were both gone."
"If people think Eulalie took Cora's baby, why would they blame Ted's family for 
anything?"
"Nobody thinks she took it," Corinne replied. "Everyone I talked to says that 
Eulalie would never have left Jake. He was just a child, and she was all he had. 
It's the one thing everyone agrees on—that Eulalie wouldn't have left Jake. If 
she'd gone anywhere, with or without the Conways' baby, she would have taken 
Jake with her."
"So what do they think happened?" Janet asked, though in her heart she already 
knew what the answer was going to be.
Corinne hesitated. Then: "All anyone would say was that they're sure George and 
Cora did something to Eulalie, and that ever since the Conways left this house, 
nothing bad has happened here."
Janet's eyes met Corinne Beckwith's. "And they think that now that we're here, 
bad things will start happening again?"
Corinne nodded.
"I don't believe it!" Janet said, trying to contain her anger. "What are they 
going to do, come after us with pitchforks, like the villagers in Frankenstein?"
Corinne Beckwith's lips curved into a tight smile. "I suspect it will be a 
little more subtle than that, but I think you've got the general idea."
Janet's outrage coalesced into cold determination. All the doubts she'd had 
about Ted's ability to do what he'd promised vanished. If Corinne Beckwith—or 
anyone else—thought they would simply pack up and leave, they were wrong.
Dead wrong.
"That's not going to happen," she said quietly. "If we leave, it will be because 
of our own failures. But nobody's going to drive us away. Nobody."


 
 
CHAPTER 11
 
 
Ted sat in the comforting darkness of the bar, staring at the drink in front of 
him. Straight vodka, with just a twist of lime for flavor. In the back of his 
mind a tiny voice whispered to him to leave the drink where it was, and go home.
Shut up, he silently whispered back. It's just one drink, and I deserve it. 
Anybody would!
He lifted the glass and stared at the clear liquid for a long moment, as if 
daring the voice in the back of his mind to challenge him again.
It remained silent, and Ted raised the glass to his lips, drained it, then 
lowered it to the bar and nudged it toward the bartender, who immediately 
responded to the unspoken request. As the bartender—another Tony, for Christ's 
sake—refilled his glass, Ted studied himself in the mirror behind the bar. What 
the hell had everyone been staring at all day? There wasn't anything wrong with 
the way he looked—in fact, he looked a hell of a lot better than most of the 
jerks who'd been staring at him. But it wasn't just the way they looked at him 
that pissed him off. It was the way they acted, too.
It started that morning, right after he'd left the house. He'd been on his way 
to the Home Depot to pick up some wood stripper and a sander and the other 
supplies he needed to restore the dining room floor, but as he was going around 
the square in the middle of town, he passed a small brick building whose 
columned entry and small dome had immediately identified it as the St. Albans 
Town Hall. And with that identification had come the echo of the words he'd 
heard at his aunt's funeral.
"...there will be a lot of opposition to giving you a variance."
"I hope you're prepared for a fight on that one...."
If there's going to be a problem, I might as well know about it right now, Ted 
told himself. He slid the Toyota into an open slot half a block past the brick 
building. As he walked back, he nodded to the two people he passed. One was a 
woman about his own age who was clutching the hand of a little boy who was 
perhaps a year older than Molly. The other was a man of about sixty, clad in 
overalls, with a fringe of gray hair sticking out from beneath a stained 
baseball cap.
Neither the man nor the woman replied to his greeting, though he was certain 
they'd both heard him. And he'd also had the distinct impression that they knew 
who he was.
The funeral, he told himself. They saw us at the funeral, and they've heard all 
the stories about Uncle George and Aunt Cora. Well, there were bound to be small 
people with small minds in small towns. But there would be just as many other 
people who wouldn't hold his family against him.
Entering the Town Hall—which at first glance appeared completely deserted—he 
looked around for a building directory and saw a sign on a door identifying it 
as the office of the Town Clerk. Inside, there was a long counter, behind which 
were two desks, one occupied by a young woman with short blond hair and a look 
of efficiency about her, the other by a man who looked to Ted as if he should 
have retired a dozen years earlier. A small plaque on his desk identified him as 
Jefferson Davis Houlihan.
The words TOWN CLERK followed his name, in letters just as large as the name 
itself.
"May I help you?" the efficient-looking blonde asked, offering Ted a polite if 
not quite warm smile. The plaque on her desk—much smaller than 
Houlihan's—informed him that her name was Amber Millard.
"I'd like to check the zoning on a piece of property," Ted replied. Was it his 
imagination, or did Amber Millard and her boss exchange a quick look? When he 
gave her the address of the house and saw the smile on her face turn brittle, he 
knew it hadn't been his imagination.
"That would be residential," she told him so quickly that Ted was certain she'd 
already looked it up. Her next words confirmed it: "Here's a copy of it. Someone 
else was just asking about the same property." Getting up from her desk, she 
came to the counter and handed Ted a single sheet of paper.
He scanned it carefully, though he was already certain of what it said. "Would 
you mind telling me who was asking about my house?"
This time, Amber Millard deferred to her boss.
"Well, now, that would be a breach of confidentiality, now wouldn't it?" 
Jefferson Davis Houlihan drawled.
Ted's first impulse was to ask Houlihan how many lawyer shows he'd been watching 
on television lately, but he checked the impulse; it would only anger the man. 
Studying the document in his hands again, he returned his attention to Amber 
Millard. "I'm going to need an application for a variance."
This time Houlihan didn't wait for his assistant to defer to him. "Not sure we 
have any. Haven't had any call for one in maybe twenty years."
Ted felt his temper rise. "Would you mind looking?" he asked, making no attempt 
to soften the edge in his voice.
"Don't mind looking," Houlihan drawled, lazily getting to his feet. "Just not 
sure where to start." His eyes fixed on Ted. "Maybe if you came back in a week 
or two..." he suggested, letting his voice trail off in an unmistakably 
deliberate way.
As he was leaving Town Hall a few minutes later, the first urge for a drink came 
over Ted, an urge that only grew stronger as the day went on. Everywhere he 
went, it was the same as at the Town Clerk's office.
No one was rude to him.
No one turned away as he approached.
Most people even smiled at him.
At first he tried to pretend it was just the way small towns worked: everybody 
here had known everybody else all their lives, and nobody knew him. It would 
take a while, but once they got to know him, they'd accept him. Especially once 
he got the inn open and his guests started spending money in the restaurants and 
shops strung neatly along the south side of the square. It's money that talks, 
he reminded himself, and mine's as good as anyone else's.
Nobody refused to sell him anything.
By lunchtime, when he'd hauled the first load of supplies back to the house, 
he'd already spent close to five hundred dollars, and in the afternoon—after 
Janet told him about Corinne Beckwith's visit—he made sure he spent a lot more.
He ordered paint and wallpaper, new slate for the roof, and new fixtures for 
every bathroom in the house. He spent an hour at the one furniture store in St. 
Albans, searching through catalog after catalog, finally putting half a dozen of 
the best—and most expensive—into the car to take home to Janet.
He talked to the plumbers and electricians and roofers, and anyone else he could 
think of who might be able to help him on the restoration. "I'm not worried 
about money," he assured every one of them—and made certain they all had Bruce 
Wilcox's phone number so the lawyer could confirm that the money was, indeed, 
there. "I'm interested in getting the job done right."
All of them listened politely.
All of them sold him whatever he wanted.
But all of them—the plumbers, the electricians, the roofers, and everyone 
else—told him the same thing: "I don't know. It's pretty busy right now. Don't 
see how I can fit you in. And that house is in pretty bad shape. Be better just 
to tear it down."
By the end of the afternoon, Ted was sick of hearing it. His last stop was at 
the market, where he picked up everything on the list Janet had given him. Then, 
he decided to make another stop to add a few things of his own.
Some bourbon. Some gin. A lot of vodka.
He'd had a rough day. He deserved a drink.
The girl at the cash register passed the bottles across the scanner without 
saying anything, but he'd seen the look in her eye, and had no trouble reading 
its meaning: Go away. We don't want you here.
Now, sitting in the bar, he met his own gaze in the mirror. To hell with you, he 
said silently. To hell with all of you. I'm here, and I'm not leaving. Draining 
the second drink in a single gulp, Ted dropped enough money on the bar to cover 
the bill and a tip and walked out.
After he was gone, the bartender scooped up the money, dropped part of it in the 
cash register and the rest of it in his tip jar, then picked up the phone.
"He was here," he said. "And he's drinking."
There was a short silence, and then the recipient of the call spoke. "That's 
good," Father MacNeill said softly. "Maybe he'll drink himself to death."
 
Evening lay like a shroud over the house. Janet tried to tell herself that her 
dark mood was just a result of the weather—the heat and humidity, unseasonable 
even for mid-September, that wrapped St. Albans like a sodden blanket. The iron 
determination that Corinne Beckwith's visit instilled in her that morning had 
begun to erode as soon as Kim and Jared came home from school. Jared tried to 
put a good face on it, but Kim made no effort to hide her feelings. Her 
unhappiness, Janet was certain, was heightened by the fact that there hadn't 
been any sign of Muffin all day.
"Something's happened to her," Kim said as she finally gave up trying to call 
the missing cat. "She wouldn't just run away."
"Cats can be pretty independent," Janet told her, trying to offer Kim hope for 
her pet, but at the same time wanting to prepare her for the possibility that 
the cat might never come back. "Maybe she just didn't like it here, and has 
found somewhere else to live."
"But she wouldn't do that," Kim protested. "Not Muffin!"
"Well, perhaps she'll come back," Janet told her, and changed the subject. "How 
was the first day at school?" she asked, and immediately wished she hadn't.
Kim moaned. "It was awful," she said. Opening the refrigerator, she rummaged 
around for a couple of Cokes, one of which she tossed to her brother. For the 
next twenty minutes Janet listened to her oldest daughter's account of the 
twins' humiliation in the first ten minutes they'd been in class at St. 
Ignatius. "And it wasn't even Jared's fault," she finished. "Sister Clarence 
never even asked if he wrote the note, and of course he wouldn't tell her he 
didn't."
"Look how she treated us," Jared said. "And it was our first day in school. If 
I'd told her Luke Roberts wrote the note, she'd have probably had him expelled, 
or made him stay after school and say two thousand Hail Marys or something."
Kim rolled her eyes, wondering once again how it was that Jared never seemed to 
get mad about anything—even someone else getting him in trouble—and always 
managed to make it sound like he hadn't done anything special. He didn't even 
seem to be angry at Sister Clarence. "Will you at least admit Sister Clarence is 
a total creep?"
"Kim!" Janet did her best to glare at her daughter, but as she'd listened to Kim 
recounting their day at school, a dark suspicion had been growing in her mind 
that there was more to it than Kim knew.
Father MacNeill.
But surely he wouldn't go so far as to turn a teacher against her own students? 
Or would he? For the rest of the afternoon the problem gnawed at her, nibbling 
away at the resolve that had come to her only a few hours earlier.
Then Ted came home, and even before they saw him, they knew what he'd been 
doing. It was nothing visible; nothing they could hear or smell, taste or touch. 
But all of them had been living with it for so long that they recognized it the 
instant he entered the house.
It was the aura of alcohol.
Janet, testing the roast she'd fixed for dinner, caught the look that passed 
between Kim and Jared. Though neither said a word, she could read their common 
thought as clearly as if they'd spoken: He's drunk!
Molly began to cry, as if she, too, had picked up the thought—or perhaps 
detected her father's condition with some internal radar of her own.
Then he came into the kitchen, confirming their unspoken thoughts.
His step was a little too careful, his speech a little too precise.
"Why are you all looking at me that way?" he asked, and the tension in the house 
notched up as they heard the paranoia in his voice. Neither Kim nor Jared 
replied, and did their best to neither look at their father nor appear to be 
trying not to look at him.
Molly's wail rose to a scream.
"Does that child have to howl every time I come into the room?" Ted demanded.
As Janet scooped Molly up from the floor and tried to comfort her, she had to 
repress the angry words that threatened to spill from her lips: She only does it 
when you've been drinking! "Dinner will be on in a few more minutes," she made 
herself say instead.
"Then Jared can unload the car," Ted said, his eyes fixing on his son. "If it's 
not too much to ask." The last words were spoken with biting sarcasm, warning 
Janet that an explosion wasn't far away.
"Not a problem," Jared said, already on his feet. Kim, grabbing at the 
opportunity to escape the ugliness in the kitchen, quickly followed her brother.
"What's wrong with her?" Ted asked. "Do I look like I have some kind of disease 
or something?"
Once again Janet forced herself to hold her tongue, but when Jared carried 
inside a large box filled with bottles of liquor, she turned furiously on Ted.
"You said you were going to stop drinking." She struggled to keep her voice 
under control, and wished she'd found the strength to hold her anger in check 
until later, when she and Ted would be alone. But it was too late. Ted was 
already glowering at her.
"Just because it's here doesn't mean I'm going to drink it."
This time Janet did stifle the words that came to mind. But it didn't matter. 
She'd already set Ted off.
"You all make me sick," he rasped. "Can you blame me for having a drink every 
now and then, the way you all act?" He picked up the box of bottles, nearly lost 
his balance, then managed to recover himself. "You want dinner, go ahead and eat 
it. I'll take care of myself." He disappeared through a doorway that led to a 
butler's pantry and the big dining room beyond. Jared made a move to follow, but 
Janet stopped him.
"Don't. Just leave him alone. Maybe at least the rest of us can enjoy our 
dinner."
But of course they couldn't. The pall over the house grew heavier, and though 
Janet kept telling herself it was just the dank heat of the evening, all of them 
knew its real cause.
Somewhere in the house, Ted was drinking.
When dinner was finished and the dishes cleared and washed, Kim and Jared 
retreated to the second floor, pleading homework to be done and a few more boxes 
still to be unpacked. But when Jared lifted Molly into his arms—"Come on, small 
fry, if we have to work, so do you!"—Janet got the message loud and clear.
We don't want to deal with him.
After they left, Janet lingered in the kitchen. At first she told herself she 
simply wanted to be alone, wanted to put off dealing with her husband for as 
long as possible. But it was more than that.
Once again she was hearing her mother's voice, and this time it was saying 
something it had never said before: Leave him. Take the children, and leave him. 
He's a liar, he's a drunk, and whatever his problems are have nothing to do with 
you. Don't let him destroy you. Don't let him destroy the children. Get out now, 
before it's too late.
The words, so clear it was as if her mother were sitting at the kitchen table, 
shook Janet. Not because they were unfamiliar words.
She'd said them to herself a hundred times.
But always before, there had been qualifications.
And always before, fear had followed immediately on the heels of the thought. 
Fear of trying to raise the children alone. Fear of trying to put a roof over 
their heads, and food on the table, and clothes on their backs. But this 
evening, in the heavy heat of the Louisiana night, all the fears had fallen 
away.
Now she was far more afraid of staying. She stepped to the back door and looked 
out. The sky was a leaden black—a thick cloud blotted out whatever light the 
stars might have provided—and in the inky darkness she saw all the forces that 
suddenly seemed to be arrayed against her.
The priest, whose words of warning at the funeral seemed far more menacing in 
the dark of night than they had in the bright light of morning.
Jake Cumberland, who had stood glowering from the sidewalk as they buried Cora 
Conway.
All the people whom Ted had told her about over lunch, people who—for whatever 
reason—didn't want them here, and made no effort to hide their feelings.
Sister Clarence, who had chosen to humiliate her children on their very first 
day at St. Ignatius.
And what was keeping them here?
A free house, and an income that would allow Ted to drink all he wanted.
Why had she let herself believe that he'd really intended to stop drinking? 
Stupid! That's what she was—just plain stupid, like all the women she'd seen on 
those television talk shows who stayed with men who beat them, and cheated on 
them, and humiliated them every chance they got. So how was she any different 
from them?
Just because Ted didn't beat her, or cheat on her?
So what?
He lied to her—had lied to her hundreds of times over the years! Why had she 
believed him this time?
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Well, ho more!
Stepping back into the kitchen, she closed the door, shutting out the darkness. 
As she started through the lower floor of the house, her mood began to lighten. 
A flood of relief told her she'd made the right decision far more strongly than 
the purely intellectual knowledge that she had no other choice.
If she and the children stayed here, something terrible would happen.
To all of them.
She found Ted slouched on the single tired sofa they'd brought with them from 
Shreveport and installed in the small den behind the living room. He was 
clutching a glass, and on the floor next to the sofa was a fifth of vodka, half 
drunk.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," she told him. "I'll take the kids and Scout—and Muffin, 
if she's back—and the car."
Ted lurched to his feet and took a step toward her, lost his balance and grabbed 
at the mantel over the small fireplace to steady himself. "You're not going 
anywhere," he growled, this time making no attempt to conceal the slur in his 
speech.
Janet refused to be drawn into a fight. The decision she'd finally made was 
giving her a serenity she hadn't felt in years. "It's over, Ted," she said, her 
voice so quiet it riveted her husband's attention. "All the years of lies, all 
the years of broken promises. I don't want to deal with it." Her glance took in 
the room; the reality of the life around her. Now, instead of the possibilities 
she'd seen through Ted's eyes a few days earlier, all she saw was the peeling 
wallpaper, the stained plaster, the filthy and broken chandelier that hung from 
a sagging ceiling. And every room in the house was just like it. "Look at this 
place," she went on. "It's just like our marriage—everything about it is rotten, 
and it ought to have been torn down years ago." Ted's fist clenched 
spasmodically, but Janet didn't so much as flinch. "Don't bother," she said. "It 
won't work. Don't bother to threaten me, don't hit me, and for God's sake, don't 
make me any more promises." She turned away, but at the door she looked back at 
him one more time. "And don't bother coming upstairs tonight, either. The 
bedroom door will be locked." She left the den and walked through the living 
room into the foyer, then started up the stairs. She was halfway to the landing 
where the staircase split when Ted's voice thundered through the house.
"You won't leave me!" he bellowed. "You'll never leave me!"
The calm she'd been feeling was shattered by her husband's fury. Racing up the 
rest of the stairs, she fled into her room, locking the door behind her. The 
thick oak slab would keep him away from her for the rest of the night, but it 
wasn't thick enough to protect her from the sound of his rage.
"Do you understand?" he roared from downstairs, his voice echoing through the 
ruined rooms. "You'll never leave me!"


 
 
CHAPTER 12
 
 
It was time. Even though he'd been deep in sleep since just after sunset, 
something inside Jake Cumberland knew it was time. He came awake in an instant, 
throwing off the ragged coverlet he'd slept under since he was a boy and 
swinging his feet to the bare wooden floor in a single smooth motion. As he 
pulled on his pants there was a faint scratching at the cabin door; his hounds, 
too, had sensed that the time had come. "Give a body a chance," Jake muttered. 
At the sound of his voice the two yellow dogs fell silent. Slipping his arms 
into the frayed sleeves of a shirt so old that its plaid pattern had all but 
disappeared, Jake lit a candle, then moved to the door and opened it just enough 
to let the animals inside. The dogs—so thin their ribs were clearly etched 
beneath their scarred hides—slithered into the cabin's single room, their noses 
already seeking out the food their master might have provided. "Maybe later," 
Jake said as he shut the door against the darkness outside.
The dogs dropped to the floor, their muzzles resting on their paws. Their 
bloodshot eyes, glowing like burning embers in the candlelight, fixed on Jake. 
As he lit four more candles, lining them up on the scarred pine counter by the 
sink, their bodies tensed and a faint whimper crept from the throat of the 
smaller one. "Quiet," Jake commanded. The dog flinched and cowered, but emitted 
no further sound.
As smoke from the five candles filled the room, Jake went to the trunk in the 
corner—his mother's trunk—and opened it. Just under the lid there was a shallow 
tray, divided into half a dozen sections, each of which contained an assortment 
of small jars and vials. His mother's altar cloth lay beneath the tray, but Jake 
knew better than to touch it until he was certain which of her charms and 
potions to use.
"Soon's you unfold it, the magic starts to work," she'd told him when he was a 
boy. "So you got to be ready. Got to know what you want to do, and what to use 
to do it."
"But how do you know?" Jake had asked, his eyes wide as he watched his 
mother—whose own eyes were tightly closed—pass her hands over the tray, her 
fingers plucking out some objects, leaving others untouched.
"It's the magic," she'd told him. "The magic will tell you."
Now Jake knelt before the trunk, and just as his mother had done when he was a 
boy, he held out his hands, suspending them just a fraction of an inch above the 
tray. He closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the ceiling.
"Help me," he implored. "Help me, Mama."
The dogs, unseen by Jake, raised their heads, then stood. As the fur on their 
hackles rose, each of them lifted a forepaw off the floor.
Their tails extended straight back.
They held their perfect point as steadily as Jake held his hands above the tray 
in the open trunk.
Jake's right hand moved, hovering above the jars and bottles, drifting first in 
one direction, then another. In the beginning it seemed to be nothing more than 
random movement, but slowly a pattern emerged, as time after time his hand 
stopped, suspended over the same five objects.
His eyes still closed, his face still raised toward the ceiling, he began 
plucking objects from the tray.
The dogs, their bodies tense, kept their eyes fixed on their master's right 
hand.
When all five objects had been lifted from the tray and placed on the floor 
beside the trunk, Jake finally opened his eyes again. Gently, almost reverently, 
he lifted the tray itself from the trunk and set it upon the bed. Then, his 
hands trembling, he reached for his mother's altar cloth. Never before in his 
life had he removed it from the trunk—never even so much as touched it. Even 
now, as the candlelight flickered around him, he hesitated.
The dark bundle, tightly bound with ribbon of a purple so dark it was nearly 
lost in the black of the cloth itself, seemed to throb in the flickering 
candlelight as if some unknown life were struggling to free itself from the 
confining folds.
The magic.
His mama's magic.
His fingers vibrating, Jake lifted the bundle out of the trunk. Carrying it to 
the table, he carefully untied the ribbons, pressed them flat, then rolled them 
up the way he'd seen his mama do. Loosened from its bonds, one edge of the cloth 
fell free, its finely embroidered border dropping into Jake's hands as if 
inviting him to shake it open. Jake's fingers closed on the soft velvet. Its 
inky blackness seemed to swallow up the candlelight like a feeding beast. 
Suddenly Jake's arms were lifted high, his wrists snapped, and he brought the 
cloth back down. In an instant the bundle unfurled, the folds of velvet 
spreading across the table like the mantle of darkness that had fallen over the 
cabin a few hours earlier. A second later the cloth dropped to the tabletop. As 
it fell into place, the creases of its folds disappeared and the rusty stains of 
age faded away. The corners of the cloth dropped perfectly, each of them hanging 
an inch above the floor.
In the center of the cloth a golden star had been embroidered, its points formed 
by five triangles whose bases, together, inscribed a perfect pentagram. Jake 
placed a candle on each of the star's five points, and as he set the last one in 
place, their combined light grew far brighter, washing the shadows from the dark 
corners of the cabin. Then, as if some unseen being had turned down the wick of 
a lamp, the light faded once more.
But something in the cloth had changed.
The space within the pentagram appeared to have opened, and as Jake stared into 
it, he felt as if he were peering into a bottomless abyss.
A wave of dizziness swept over him; Jake felt as if he were teetering on the 
brink of the abyss, about to plunge over into the darkness—darkness that would 
swallow him up as surely as the conflagration he'd watched forty years ago had 
swallowed up his mama.
Uneasy growls rose in both dogs' throats, but as Jake turned away from the altar 
he'd created, the guttural sounds died away.
One by one Jake picked up the items he'd taken from the tray. There were three 
small jars and two vials. Removing the lid from the first, he took a pinch of 
the ground tusk of a wild boar and rubbed it into one of the triangles.
As the candle at the triangle's point flared brighter, Jake murmured a quick 
prayer: "May your belly be torn, and your entrails spilled."
From the second jar he took the curved thorn of a wild rose. "Let your skin be 
ripped, and your blood ooze from your wounds." The second candle flared.
He removed the stopper from one of the vials, and the stench of skunk oil filled 
the room. As he poured a single drop of the oily fluid in front of the third 
triangle, feeding its struggling flame, another incantation fell from his lips: 
"May your lungs burn and pus fill your throat."
The broken quill of a porcupine came next, and now four of the candles were 
flaring up. "May your eyes be pierced and blackness fall over you."
Finally Jake opened the second vial and let flow a single drop of the clear 
liquid within. As the flame of the last candle swelled and the acid from the 
last vial ate into the velvet's surface, he uttered one last prayer: "May your 
flesh be stripped away, and your bones be consumed by dogs."
The two yellow dogs edged closer, as if anticipating a meal.
Once again the combined flames of the candles filled the cabin with a luminous 
golden glow. Now Jake went to the far corner and picked up one of the tattered 
canvas bags in which he carried home the fruits of his trap lines. Tonight, 
though, it wasn't a nutria the sack contained, or the carcass of a weasel or 
otter or possum.
Tonight the bag contained the prize he'd captured the night before.
Carefully, respectfully, he lifted the carcass of Kimberley Conway's cat from 
the folds of the canvas. The animal's eyes were open, and it seemed to watch him 
as he laid it in the center of the pentagram.
From a rack above the kitchen counter, he took a filleting knife whose blade was 
worn thin from years of honing.
In the brilliant light of the flaring candles, Jake Cumberland set about his 
work.
In half an hour it was done.
He'd divided the entrails of the cat into four equal portions, and each of the 
portions had been seared by the flame of one of the first four candles.
The cat's hide, scraped free of every scrap of flesh, was held over the fifth 
candle. The flame consumed a patch of its fur as quickly as the acid had eaten 
through the velvet on which the candle stood.
The ritual complete, Jake packed away the entrails, and the hide and head, in 
his canvas bag and blew out the candles. As their light died away, the smoke in 
the room began to clear, taking with it the foul odor of the skunk oil.
The white powder of the boar's tusk vanished into the nap of the velvet, along 
with the rose's thorn and the porcupine's quill.
The hole eaten through the cloth by the acid disappeared, and as Jake lifted the 
velvet from the table, it fell once more into the folds from which he'd shaken 
it loose an hour ago.
As the distant toll of the church bell striking midnight sounded, Jake rebound 
the cloth with the purple ribbons and returned it to his mama's trunk. He placed 
the tray back on its supporting rails and closed the lid.
Just before leaving the house with the canvas bag, Jake Cumberland fed his two 
yellow dogs. They fell hungrily upon the skeleton of the cat, growling and 
snarling as they ripped the tendons apart and crushed the bones in their jaws.
 
The huge clock in the corner of the cavernous living room—an ornately carved 
piece that had a distinctly Germanic look to it—began tolling the hour as Ted 
was tearing the plastic seal loose from a fresh bottle of vodka.
The second one, or the third?
He couldn't quite remember, but decided it must be the second. If it was the 
third, he should have been sound asleep by now, and he wasn't.
He wasn't even close.
His fingers stopped working at the bottle's seal as he counted the hours the 
clock was striking.
...ten ... eleven ... twelve ... thirteen.
Thirteen?
What the hell...? There wasn't any such thing as thirteen o'clock—everyone knew 
that.
As the seal broke, he gave the cap a twist, then lifted the bottle to his lips 
and took a healthy swig. The familiar warmth of alcohol flowed comfortingly down 
his throat and spread through his belly.
And Janet's words—the words that had been slamming at his head all 
evening—quieted for a few seconds.
She didn't mean it—couldn't mean it! Without him, what the hell would she do? 
Besides, he'd heard it all before. Wasn't she always whining that she couldn't 
stand it, that if he didn't stop drinking, she was gonna leave? But she never 
did—never would. She loved him.
Couldn't live without him.
But what the hell was going on with the clock? Come to think of it, how come it 
was running at all? He didn't remember winding it. 'Course, Janet or one of the 
kids could've done that. But he didn't remember hearing it chime before, either.
What the hell kind of clock only struck once, and then struck the wrong time?
Ted struggled off the sofa and lurched over to it, staring up at its etched 
brass plate. There were dials all over it—one that showed the time, and another 
that showed the seconds ticking by, and a big one with the moon on it. The clock 
was running, all right. He could see the pendulum moving. His gaze shifted to 
the dial that showed the seconds. There was something about it that appealed to 
him, the way it ticked a notch forward every time the pendulum swung.
It was ... His mind groped for a word, then found exactly the right one.
Tidy. That's what it was.
Neat and tidy.
The way things should be.
Except that they weren't. Reaching out to steady himself against the bookcase 
built into the wall next to the clock, he peered around at the room. Even 
through the haze of alcohol, he could see the curling wallpaper and peeling 
paint, and the stains in the carpet. What the hell had Janet been doing all day? 
Couldn't anybody but himself do anything?
His eyes shifted back to the clock.
A couple of minutes past midnight.
Not thirteen o'clock at all.
Stupid. Stupid idea, thinking it could be thirteen o'clock. Musta just 
miscounted. Reaching up to the glass door that protected the face, he fumbled 
with it for a second, then managed to pull it open.
He pushed the minute hand forward until it pointed at the three.
But instead of striking the quarter hour, the clock once more began chiming the 
hours.
Once again, Ted counted.
Again the clock struck thirteen times.
Ted backed away from it, though his eyes remained fixed on its face, as if held 
there by some unseen force.
As he watched, the hands began to move, and once again the clock began to 
strike.
A trick! It had to be some kind of trick!
The hands couldn't be moving as fast as it looked like they were—it was 
impossible.
But as the minute hand came around to the nine, the clock once again tolled 
thirteen times.
Still unable to tear his eyes from the clock's face, Ted watched as the hand 
moved inexorably toward the twelve. Unconsciously, he held his breath as the 
clock began striking for the fifth time. As the deep chord reverberated through 
the house—once, twice, then thrice—Ted realized that something else was wrong.
The clock still read midnight.
But the minute hand had made a complete revolution! He knew it had! He'd watched 
it!
—five, six, seven times the clock struck.
Broken. That was it—the thing was just broken!
—ten, eleven, twelve—
Ted waited, his breath still trapped in his lungs, as the note faded away and 
silence descended. Finally, when he could hear it no more, he slowly exhaled. 
Turning away, he raised the bottle once more to his lips.
And once more the clock began to strike.
The bottle dropped from his hand. "Janet?" His wife's name slipped unbidden from 
his mouth. Then he whispered it again: "Janet, help me."
The last tolling of the clock died away. Before it could start again, Ted 
snatched up the bottle—half of the contents had already drained out onto the 
carpet—and stumbled out of the living room, pulling the doors closed behind him.
He moved across the huge foyer and into the dining room, pushing its doors 
tightly closed.
Safe.
Even if the clock started to strike again—
Even before the thought was fully formed he heard it again. But not muffled—not 
like it was coming from another room at all.
He whirled around.
And there was the clock! Standing against the opposite wall, between the two 
windows that looked out toward the wilderness behind the carriage house. Ted's 
heart raced as he told himself it wasn't possible, that the clock was still in 
the living room, that there wasn't any clock in this room, at least not one like 
this.
Its tolling grew louder, echoing through the room. Once again Ted dropped the 
bottle and clamped his hands over his ears, but the striking of the clock grew 
ever louder—so loud that with every chord it felt as if spikes were being driven 
into his ears.
Crazy!
He was going crazy!
Fumbling with the latch on the heavy dining room doors, he finally threw them 
open again, and fled back into the huge entry hall. But the sound followed him, 
and he realized his mistake—now he was hearing both clocks.
"Janet?" he called out again, instinctively invoking the name of the one person 
he'd always been able to rely on. "Janet, where are you?"
Upstairs. She was upstairs, in their bedroom.
Got to get there! Got to get upstairs!
He started up the flight, stumbling on the first step and barely catching 
himself on the mahogany banister. A wave of dizziness swept over him as he 
pulled himself back upright. His stomach felt queasy.
Drank too much. Drank just a little too much.
Hanging onto the banister with both hands, he pulled himself up a few more 
steps.
And the tolling of the clock struck him again.
Sagging to his knees, he peered up into the gloom, and there, on the landing, he 
could see it.
The clock!
The same clock that had been in the living room and the dining room.
"Nooo..." he wailed, his voice cracking as a sob of fear choked his throat. 
Turning away from the tolling clock, he stumbled back toward the foot of the 
stairs, but missed his footing completely on the third step, reached for the 
banister, missed again, and tumbled down the stairs, his right shoulder 
wrenching painfully as he sprawled out on the floor of the entry hall. Ignoring 
the pain in his shoulder, Ted scrambled to his feet, stumbling from one room to 
another, searching for some place—any place—that would be free of the terrible 
striking of the clock. Everywhere he went the clock was there, tolling the 
impossible hour time after time until it felt as if every part of his body was 
being subjected to the blows of the hammer.
Finally there was only one door left, and Ted stumbled through it.
He was at the top of a steep flight of stairs leading into the basement. The 
darkness below him yawned like the gaping mouth of some great beast, and Ted 
fumbled for a light switch, found one, and flipped it on.
The darkness below was pierced by a beckoning light. His heart still pounding, 
the terror of the impossible chimes still battering at him, Ted lurched down the 
stairs until he came to the bottom.
And still the terrible tolling found him.
"Stop it," he whispered, jamming his hands against his ears, but now the sound 
seemed to come from inside his head itself, throbbing inside his skull, falling 
into rhythm with his heart.
A stroke!
That was it!
He was having a stroke!
The pain in his head ballooning, he stumbled through another door. Once again he 
tripped, and this time when he fell to the floor an agonizing knife-twist shot 
through his right wrist. Screaming, Ted clutched at his wrist.
Another wave of dizziness hit him, and his belly heaved. As the contents of his 
stomach shot from his mouth, he dropped to the floor and felt the heat of his 
own vomit on his cheek.
The rancid fumes caused him to puke again, and then, rolling over onto his back, 
he began to sob.
"No—" he pleaded, his voice breaking and choking.
"Don't want to die. Don't want to."
But he was going to die—lying in the dark chamber with only a few rays of light 
leaking through the door. He knew it.
With Janet asleep upstairs, he was going to die.
Die alone, die drunk.
Dead drunk.
"No. No. Nooo." A whisper. A sob. "Help me ... please, help me. Someone, please 
help me."
He retched again, and then again. He struggled to move, at least to slither away 
from the pool of vomit in which he lay, but any movement he made was pure agony.
Then, from somewhere deep in the darkness surrounding him, he saw something.
From somewhere hidden in the darkness a mist was rising. A mist that seemed to 
be illuminated from within, as if a thousand candles were burning unseen in the 
strange fog. As he stared at the fog, a face began to take shape.
A powerful face, with glowing eyes that bored into the depths of his soul.
A hallucination.
That had to be it—he was hallucinating.
Or dying.
That was it—his life was ebbing away, and this was a spirit come to lead him 
into the mists of death.
"Help me," he whispered once again. "Please help me."
The mist itself seemed to reach out to him, and he felt a touch—a burning 
touch—on his cheek.
A voice spoke. A whisper. Neither a woman's voice nor a man's, something 
unearthly yet distinct. "Will you give me whatever I ask?"
Ted stared up into the glittering eyes. "Yes," he whispered. "Oh, God, yes."
The terrible tolling in Ted's head eased.
The nausea in his belly calmed.
"Anything," he pleaded once again. "I'll do anything. Just help me."
Once again he felt the searing touch.
In an instant the pain in his wrist and shoulder were gone.
In the sudden silence Ted Conway fell into sleep. But just before he surrendered 
to blankness, he knew that something inside him had changed.
Nothing, he knew, would ever be the same again.


 
 
CHAPTER 13
 
 
Jared?" The sound faded into the silence that surrounded him. At first Jared 
wasn't really sure he'd heard someone calling his name. But then it came again, 
faint, barely audible. "Jared!"
His father's voice.
Though he could barely hear it, Jared recognized it immediately, rasping with 
the anger that was always there, even when his father was sober.
Was he sober now?
Jared couldn't tell.
Then the voice came again, and this time it carried a note of command. "Jared!"
He sounded nearer now, and Jared tensed. His eyes flicked first one way then the 
other, trying to catch a glimpse of his father. But he saw nothing. Then, as his 
father called out to him yet again, Jared realized he was lost. But that was 
crazy—he knew exactly where he was: in the big house in St. Albans, in his room 
on the second floor. Except now he wasn't. He was in a room—a big room—but there 
was nothing in it. No furniture, no carpets, nothing hanging on the walls. One 
of the walls, though, was pierced by two windows. Jared moved close enough to 
the glass to look out.
Nothing.
It was as if a thick fog had fallen beyond the window, and when he tried to peer 
into it, his eyes found nothing to focus on. A weird disorientation fell over 
him, causing him to lose his balance. Staggering, he instinctively reached out 
to steady himself against the window frame.
His right hand plunged through it, disappearing into the gray morass beyond the 
boundaries of the room. Jared froze in shock.
He jerked his arm back, and for a single terrible instant thought his hand was 
gone. But no! It was there, and it didn't hurt, and—
What the hell had happened?
For several long seconds he stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the spot 
where his hand had disappeared. Then, as if drawn by some unseen force, his hand 
started moving once again toward the same spot.
"No!"
The word jabbed his consciousness like the stinger of a hornet, and Jared jerked 
back to life. He sprung around, certain his father was standing right behind 
him. The room was still empty.
He whirled around again. Now the gray fog beyond the window had vanished. 
Instead there was a blackness that seemed to go on for all eternity. But it was 
a blackness that was not empty.
As he gazed into it, his heart pounding, he felt something reaching out to him.
Something that wanted to touch his soul.
A strangled cry rising in his throat, Jared backed away from the window, then 
turned and fled through the room's single door.
He found himself in a corridor, a long, broad passage that seemed to stretch on 
forever in both directions. He looked one way, then the other. Which way should 
he go? Panic began to rise in him. One way looked exactly like the other.
But he had to make up his mi—
He stopped.
Something was close to him. Very close.
He held his breath, listening.
Silence.
Yet it was there. He could feel it; it was edging closer.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and a shiver passed through him.
Behind him! It was behind him, and now he could almost feel its touch.
If it touched him, he would die.
Die, and disappear forever into the terrible blackness he'd glimpsed beyond the 
window.
Then, once more, he heard his father calling to him. This time Jared followed 
the voice, racing down the hall, for a moment certain he'd escaped.
Then he felt it again. Still there—the unseen thing that had emerged from the 
darkness beyond the window crept across the room and reached out to him.
It was behind him again.
He tried to run faster, but no matter how fast he ran, or how far, the 
passageway stretched endlessly away. Then it forked, and forked again, and again 
Jared felt a surge of hope. He turned and started down a new corridor. Abruptly, 
out of nowhere, his way was blocked.
Sister Clarence, pointing at him accusingly, her eyes flashing with daggers of 
fury.
Turning back, Jared ran in the other direction.
But this time Father MacNeill blocked his path, screaming curses at him and 
holding a crucifix high, as if trying to ward off the Devil himself.
He whirled again, but now a huge black man, grinning wickedly at him, reached 
out to grasp his throat. Once more Jared spun away and ran. He dodged in one 
direction or another, but everywhere he turned the nun was waiting for him, or 
the priest, or the black man who wanted to strangle him.
Then, once more, he heard his father's voice. "This way! Come this way." Again 
he dodged this way and that, always following his father's voice, his unseen 
pursuer drawing ever closer. Urged on by his father's voice, Jared ran until 
finally he could run no longer. Lungs burning, heart pounding, he collapsed to 
the floor, his breath coming in gasping pants. Terror and exhaustion overwhelmed 
him, and he began to sob.
Then, through the overpowering fear, he felt the force from the darkness 
encircle him, grasping and enclosing him in the dark, suffocating despair he was 
too tired to resist.
Couldn't run.
Couldn't hide.
Couldn't escape.
It was over.
After what might have been a second or an eternity, Jared heard his father's 
voice once more.
"Open your eyes, Jared."
He obeyed, but saw nothing at all. It was as if he'd been drawn into the 
blackness beyond the window of the room he'd fled, been sucked so deep into its 
vortex that no light would ever again penetrate his world. Then, deep in the 
blackness, twin embers began to glow. At first they were no more than pinpricks 
of light, but as Jared watched, they grew larger and larger, burning brighter, 
moving toward him. Slowly, they began to take on form.
Not lights, but eyes.
Glittering, golden eyes, their pupils not round, but slitted. They seemed to be 
lit from within, and as they drew closer, the light grew bright enough to show 
him the face from which they peered.
The face was dark, and covered with scales, and from its mouth—an angry gash 
between the two dripping holes that were its nostrils—a slithering tongue darted 
forth. As if hypnotized by the terrible visage, Jared remained where he was, 
immobile.
The face drew closer yet. Now Jared could feel the tongue flick against his 
cheek, then move across his jaw and down his body.
Everywhere it touched him, it felt as if a razor had sliced his skin. But 
instead of blood oozing forth from his wounds, an icy chill crept inward.
The tongue kept moving, creeping over every part of him, and slowly the cold 
took hold, reaching into him through every pore, like the tendrils of some vile 
plant growing within him. As it spread he knew there was nothing he could do to 
throw it off. For the first time since the nightmare began, Jared opened his 
mouth to scream.
But it was too late.
The ice had already captured him, the darkness taken possession of his soul.
 
It was as if an electric charge had shot through Kim. She jerked awake, her body 
convulsing, throwing off sleep like a dog shaking water from its coat. "Jared?" 
she heard herself cry out. "Jared, what's wrong?"
Why did I do that? The question popped into her mind even as the reverberation 
of her words died away, and for several seconds she sat perfectly still in her 
dark room, listening.
Nothing.
Nothing, at least, except the sound of an owl hooting in the distance, some 
insects chirping, the normal creaking of the house, and the comforting ticking 
of the old-fashioned wind-up alarm clock she kept by her bed.
Nor could she find any remnants of dreams clinging to the corners of her 
consciousness. One moment she'd been sound asleep, and the next wide-awake. 
Wide-awake, and worried about Jared.
The Twin Thing.
But that didn't make sense. Why would it have happened now, in the middle of the 
night? She picked up the clock and tipped it toward the window, where a little 
moonlight was seeping in. A little after three-thirty in the morning. Usually, 
when the Twin Thing happened, she and Jared were both awake. In fact, most of 
the time, they were together when that sudden understanding passed between them. 
But she'd read about other twins who had experienced powerful connections. Like 
knowing when the other was in some kind of trouble. Hurt, or sick, something 
like that. Could it happen when you were asleep?
Getting up, Kim pulled on the old cotton bathrobe she'd appropriated from her 
brother when he outgrew it, and went to her door. She listened again, but this 
time it was for her father. What if he hadn't passed out yet and was still 
drinking? If he spotted her, he'd yell at her, or want her to stay up and talk 
to him. Except he wouldn't want her to talk at all—he'd want her to listen while 
he went on and on about how unfair everything was.
Like anybody ever said life was supposed to be fair. At least she and Jared had 
figured that one out a long time ago.
Finally, she opened her door a few inches and peered out through the crack. 
There was enough light coming up from one of the rooms downstairs so she could 
see all the way across the broad entry hall to Jared's room, opening off the 
opposite wing of the mezzanine.
His door was closed, and no light showed from the crack beneath it.
Kim paused to listen again. Hearing no sounds drifting up from the floor below, 
she quickly padded around the mezzanine to her brother's door. "Jared?" she 
whispered. "Jared!"
She heard a soft whining.
Scout?
But Scout always slept at the foot of Jared's bed, and it was Jared who had to 
wake the dog up every morning, not vice versa. She twisted the knob, felt the 
latch come free, eased the door open, and peered inside. Instantly, Scout jammed 
his muzzle in the gap, demanding to be scratched. "What is it, boy?" Kim asked. 
She pushed the door open wider and knelt down to rub Scout's neck, massaging his 
shoulders the way she knew he liked it. But a second later Scout pulled away 
from her and darted to the open window, where he reared up, braced himself on 
the sill with one paw, and scratched eagerly at the screen with the other. "Oh, 
no," Kim whispered. "That's how Muffin got—"
Muffin!
Maybe that was it! Maybe it wasn't Jared at all! Maybe Muffin was trying to get 
back in, and somehow she'd known it!
She crossed to the window and looked out into the night. "Muffin?" she called. 
Then, trying to keep her voice soft, so only the cat would hear it: "Here, 
kitty, kitty, kitty. Come on, Muffin!"
"Kim?"
Startled by her brother's voice, Kim whirled around to find Jared glaring at 
her.
"Jesus, Kim," he said, "what are you doing in my room? What time is it?"
"Three-thirty," she told him. "Something woke me up. I was worried about you—"
"Yeah, right," Jared said, his voice harsh with anger. "You were so worried 
about me you came in and started hollering for your damn cat."
Kim's mouth dropped open in surprise. Jared had never spoken to her like 
that—never! "I was worried about you," she protested. "But when Scout went to 
the window, I—"
"Will you just go back to bed?" Jared cut in.
"Well, sor-reee," Kim shot back. "Next time I get worried about you, I'll just 
go back to sleep!"
"Fine!" Jared said, flopping back down onto his pillow and turning his back on 
his sister. "Just leave me alone, okay?"
Well, if that's how you feel, fine! Kim said to herself as she moved toward the 
door. But before leaving his room, she turned back. "Jared?" she said. "Are you 
sure you're okay?"
Jared emitted an exaggerated sigh. "What do I have to do, take a physical? Just 
shut the door and leave me alone!"
Kim slammed it hard enough to make him jump.
"Jesus," he complained to Scout, now at the side of the bed, pawing at him. 
"Like it was my fault or something!" But as he turned over to go back to sleep, 
he had a vague memory of a dream he'd had—a nightmare, in which he'd been 
running through the halls of the house, trying to get away from Sister Clarence, 
and Father MacNeill, and a big, black guy who looked kind of familiar but whose 
name he couldn't quite remember.
But it hadn't been Kim who finally came to his rescue. It was his dad.
His dad! Yeah, like that would ever happen! If he was ever really in trouble, 
his dad would probably be too drunk to do anything but watch him die. Then, 
remembering what he'd overheard earlier, when his parents were fighting, he 
wondered if his mother really meant it this time about leaving. Probably 
not—she'd said it all before. Jared turned over in bed again, and Scout 
scratched at him again. "What's with you, boy? Just lie down and go to sleep, 
okay?"
But instead of lying down, the big dog ran to the window and scratched at the 
screen. Realizing the dog wouldn't leave him alone, Jared moved to the window 
and crouched next to Scout, looking out. "What is it, boy?" he asked. "What's 
out there?" Scout bounded to the bedroom door, whimpered eagerly, and scratched 
at it. "Okay, I get the message," Jared groused. He pulled on his jeans and a 
T-shirt, and shoved his feet into a pair of sneakers.
When he opened the bedroom door, Scout raced for the stairs. The dog disappeared 
through the dining room, toward the kitchen, long before Jared reached the 
landing. He paused halfway down the stairs, listening for any sign of his 
father. Chances were he'd passed out hours ago, but you never knew.
Jared decided he didn't even want to think about it.
He hurried down the rest of the stairs, made his way through the dark dining 
room and into the kitchen, where Scout stood at the back door, scratching and 
whimpering to be let out. Jared peered through the window, searching for 
whatever Scout was upset about, but he couldn't see anything.
He was about to open the door and let the dog outside when he remembered what 
had happened to Muffin. According to Kim, the cat had just gone out the window 
and disappeared.
More likely, he thought, a raccoon got her, or a bobcat, or something.
Dumb cat.
Still, if there were something out there, and Scout went after it...
Sighing, Jared poked around in the service porch until he found an old piece of 
clothesline. Giving it a couple of yanks, he decided it would hold, and tied one 
end of it to Scout's collar. Then he let the big retriever out the back door, 
expecting the dog to move a few steps out into the overgrown yard and lift his 
leg. Instead, Scout raced off toward the carriage house, the rope burning across 
Jared's palm as the dog pulled it through his fingers. Throwing a couple of 
quick loops around his wrist, the boy reined the dog to a stop, but when Scout 
continued to pull, Jared started down the back steps into the yard.
Scout led him around to the back of the carriage house, then reared up, placing 
his forepaws on the building's siding.
And in the moonlight, Jared saw it.
Hanging with head down, its tongue lolling out of its mouth, was Muffin.
Or at least what was left of Muffin.
The cat's hide had been nailed neatly to the wall, the legs spread, even the 
tail tacked in a curve so it looked as if Muffin were trying to climb down the 
wall.
It was just out of Scout's reach, but the dog kept stretching, as if trying to 
touch the cat's head.
Jared stared at the hide for a long time, then reached out and tore it loose 
from the wall. He was about to throw it into one of the garbage cans when he 
changed his mind. What if Kim came out in the morning and found it? Better put 
it somewhere else. He cast about in his mind and remembered the packing boxes 
he'd stowed inside the carriage house. Leaving Scout whimpering next to the wall 
where the hide had been nailed, Jared disappeared into the building. A moment 
later he was back. "Okay, Scout," he said, his voice low but hard. "Who did it? 
Show me who did it, Scout. Find him!"
In response, the dog began sniffing around the area. Then, catching a scent, he 
headed for the scrubby woods that edged the eastern boundary of the property. 
Pulling in most of the clothesline, Jared followed Scout to the edge of the 
woods, where he stopped.
Maybe he should go back and try to find a flashlight, he thought. But who even 
knew which one of the cartons to look in? Besides, the moon was still high, and 
the night was clear.
And Scout could see anything, even in the dark.
"Okay, boy," he said softly, making up his mind. "Let's go."
Following close behind the dog, giving him no more than six feet of rope, Jared 
made his way along the path through the woods. The dog kept his nose to the 
ground, moving quickly, taking them farther and farther from the house. Then, 
just as Jared was about to pull Scout off the scent and start back toward him, 
the retriever froze, one foot off the ground, tail extended.
Jared crept forward and dropped to his knees next to the big dog. He peered 
through the darkness, and at first saw nothing. Then, barely visible in the 
gloom, he made out the silhouette of a cabin. "There?" he asked. "Is that where 
he came from?"
Scout trembled, whining eagerly. Then he tensed.
Feeling the dog's muscles harden, Jared, too, held perfectly still, listening.
Off to the left he heard something.
Not much. Just the softest rustling, as if something were moving in the bushes.
Something, or someone?
Jared's heart began pounding, and for a second he was certain that whatever—or 
whoever—was out there must surely hear it.
The rustling came again, and then something else.
The snap of a twig?
He heard it again.
Closer this time.
Much closer.
His fingers tightening on Scout's collar, he pulled the dog back. "Come on, 
Scout," he whispered. "We'd better—"
Before he could finish his sentence, or move away, the night was rent by a 
howling sound that exploded out of the cabin. A second later the howling dropped 
into the steady baying of hounds. The cabin door opened. An oil lamp was held 
high, casting a yellowish glow a few feet from the ramshackle structure. "Who's 
out there?" a rough voice yelled. "I'm warnin' you! You get away right now, or 
I'm turnin' these dogs loose!"
Under the cover of the hounds' baying, Jared scurried back down the path, 
pulling Scout with him.
Twenty minutes later, he crept back into the house and up to his room. Stripping 
off his clothes, he slipped back into bed. Though he'd been out only an hour, he 
felt as if he'd been up all night. But it didn't matter how he felt—he'd found 
out what he needed to know.
He'd found out, and he'd do something about it.


 
 
CHAPTER 14
 
 
I'm leaving him. This time, I'm actually going to leave him.
It had been the last thought in Janet's mind last night, and it was still there 
as the alarm dragged her out of sleep that morning. She started to get out of 
bed, then stopped.
Something had changed.
She listened.
Nothing in the house sounded different. A mockingbird was singing in the yard 
outside, not quite drowning out a rooster crowing in the distance, and when she 
went to the window, she saw only a sunny morning, the soft blue of the sky 
broken by a few fluffy clouds. Her gaze dropped to the landscape around the 
house, and as she focused on the kudzu that had wrapped itself around every 
growing thing in the yard, a wave of claustrophobia broke over her. She felt as 
if she couldn't breathe, and her arms—no, her whole body—were wrapped in layers 
of cloth from which she couldn't free herself. Dear God, what was happening to 
her? She was suffocating; she could hardly move—
No! She wasn't suffocating. It was only the kudzu. And once the house and the 
yard were free of it—She cut off the thought, refusing even to finish it.
Out, she reminded herself. I'm getting out. She turned away from the window and 
surveyed the room. Most of her clothes were still packed in the boxes they'd 
brought from Shreveport. Most of the kids' things were still packed as well. 
Would all those cartons fit into the Toyota? And she'd have to repack some 
suitcases....
The Toyota! Where was it?
She whirled back to the window and gazed down at the empty space where Ted had 
parked the car when he'd finally come home yesterday.
Had he put it in the carriage house?
Of course not—he'd left it outside, and spent the rest of the evening drinking. 
By the time she'd finally told him she was leaving, he'd been barely able to 
stand up, let alone—
Abruptly, she understood.
If he took the car, she couldn't take it herself. Her moment of panic when she'd 
seen that the car was gone dissolved into anger. How drunk must he have been to 
think that taking the car would keep her here?
Far too drunk to drive.
A stab of fear jabbed through her anger, and she sagged back down onto the bed, 
her roiling emotions draining the energy out of her. Automatically, she reached 
for the phone by the bed. How many times had she done this? How many times had 
she called the police, called the hospitals, even called the morgue, looking for 
her husband?
She couldn't even count them.
It wasn't until she'd started dialing the old-fashioned Princess phone on the 
nightstand that she remembered it wasn't hooked up. The telephone man was 
supposed to come today.
This morning, or this afternoon?
She couldn't remember.
And suddenly she didn't care.
Get through it, she told herself. Just get dressed, fix some breakfast, get the 
kids off to school, and get through it. He'll come back. He always does. And 
when he does...
When he did, she would be ready. She'd have a suitcase packed, and one for the 
kids, and as soon as he showed up, she'd take the car, and that would be that. 
She'd put Molly and Scout in the backseat, pick up the kids at St. Ignatius, and 
they'd be gone.
Pulling on her robe, she lifted Molly—who was rubbing her eyes sleepily—out of 
her crib, unlocked the bedroom door, and carried her youngest daughter down to 
the kitchen. Kim had already started a pot of coffee and was getting cereal and 
milk out of the refrigerator.
But there was no sign of Jared, who was usually up even earlier than Kim.
"Where's your brother?" she asked.
Kim's eyes clouded and she shrugged her shoulders. "Still asleep, I guess," she 
said. The listlessness in her voice spoke far more clearly than the words she 
had uttered.
They'd heard it all, Janet thought. They both heard the whole thing. "I guess 
you know I've decided to leave your father," she said carefully.
Kim turned to look at her. "You mean we're going back to Shreveport?"
Janet hesitated, then nodded. Now that Kim had spoken the words out loud, she 
realized that this time she really did mean it. She bit her lip, trying to hold 
back tears, but couldn't hold them back any longer. "I just can't take it 
anymore," she said, crying softly now. "I can't, and you and Jared can't, 
either. I don't know what we're going to do, but I don't know what else to do. 
I—" Janet sank into one of the kitchen chairs as Molly began crying, too.
Kim lifted her little sister out of her mother's arms. "It'll be okay, Mom," she 
said as Molly calmed down. "We'll figure it out. Jared and I can get jobs after 
school—"
She stopped abruptly, and Janet realized someone else had just come into the 
room. No, she said silently to herself. Don't let it be Ted. Not now. Not right 
now. Just give me a little time. But when she turned, she saw that it wasn't 
Ted, it was Jared.
Her son stood in the doorway, his worn denim jacket slung carelessly over his 
shoulder. His head was cocked and his eyes were fixed on Kim.
"What do you mean, we'll get jobs after school?" Jared asked.
Janet opened her mouth, but it was Kim who spoke. "Mom says we're going back to 
Shreveport. After last night—"
"Yeah, right," Jared cut in, rolling his eyes scornfully. "Mom's not going 
anywhere. None of us are." With a derisive toss of his head, he turned away. 
"See you at school."
He was gone before either Kim or Janet could speak. The front door slammed. As 
Molly began crying again, Janet once more struggled to control her own tears. 
"Oh, God," she said, her voice breaking as the turmoil of emotions she'd been 
through since she'd awakened overwhelmed her. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. How 
could I have put you both through all of this?" She buried her face in her 
hands, sobbing.
"It'll be all right, Mom," she heard her daughter say, Kim's hand on her 
shoulder. "As soon as we get out of here, everything will be all right."
 
Fifteen minutes later, after cleaning up the kitchen, Kim left the house for St. 
Ignatius.
It wasn't until she was halfway there that it hit her.
Not once had she walked to school alone, she realized. Always before, until this 
morning, Jared had been with her.
But not today.
Today she was walking by herself.
But it was more than that: today she couldn't even find Jared in that strange 
corner of her mind where, for as long as she could remember, she'd always felt 
his presence, always felt a connection to her twin.
Today, that connection was gone.
Today, she was truly by herself.


 
 
CHAPTER 15
 
 
The problem with being mayor of St. Albans—or anyplace else, for that matter—was 
that you had to be nice to everyone, whether you liked them or not. And with the 
man who now sat across from Phil Engstrom, who had held the office of mayor for 
ten years, and fully intended to hold it for at least twenty more, the problem 
became a double-edged sword. Mayor Engstrom's visitor that morning was Father 
MacNeill, who was not only a constituent—though the priest regularly assured him 
that the Church was always above politics—but was Phil Engstrom's confessor, as 
well. The cleric invariably provided the extra emphasis to the word always in 
his disclaimer of any church interest in local politics, as if somehow that 
would convince Engstrom of the statement's veracity. The fact that Phil had 
never particularly liked MacNeill only added to the problem, but at least this 
morning nothing so important as his soul was at stake. Of course, his dislike of 
the priest had long ago made him less than candid in the confessional. That, he 
thought, combined with his recent yearnings to skip mass entirely in favor of 
putting in eighteen holes at the new course up in Valhalla, had undoubtedly 
already condemned him to an eternity in purgatory, or worse. Now, as the priest 
finally came to the point after ten minutes of small talk to which Engstrom had 
made all the proper responses, he put on his best look of concerned interest.
"It just doesn't seem that the old Conway house is the right place for a hotel," 
the priest said. "It's always been a residential area, and if we allow one 
commercial enterprise to take root there, how can we protect the integrity of 
the neighborhood?"
Engstrom leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers over a belly that had 
lately been suffering from a little too much of his wife's perfectly fried 
chicken. "I'm not exactly sure I'm followin' your interest in all this," he 
said, sweetening his voice with a little extra drawl and putting on a look of 
vague confusion. "Sort of seems like fixin' the old Conway place up would be 
good for the community. Pretty old house like that—seems a shame to just let it 
go to the kudzu, now doesn't it? And now's I think about it, it's not really in 
any specific neighborhood, is it? Not too many houses out there on 
Pontchartrain, and it's at the end of the street, kinda set off by itself, so it 
doesn't hardly seem like much of a variance would have to be made." Something 
flashed over the priest's face that Phil Engstrom couldn't quite put his finger 
on. "'Course, if there's somethin' I don't know about, I'm sure here to listen." 
He gave the priest a smile.
"Just like you're always there to hear me out when I been less than the man I'd 
like to be, right?"
Father MacNeill returned the smile, but Engstrom felt no warmth from it. "It is 
a lovely old house," the priest agreed, but something in his voice warned the 
mayor what was coming next. "But I'm not sure the Conways are the kind of people 
we want to encourage."
Aha! Engstrom thought. Now we get to the grits. "An' why might that be?" he 
asked. "Ya'll know somethin' about 'em that the rest of us don't?"
Father MacNeill's lips pursed and his expression tightened, a sign that he was 
about to confide in the mayor.
Sure enough, the priest leaned forward slightly, and his eyes darted around the 
office as if seeking some unseen person who might be eavesdropping. "If I might 
speak confidentially...?" he began, letting his voice trail off in an invitation 
to Engstrom to reassure him that his confidence would not be violated.
"Ya'll can think of this office as my own personal confessional," the mayor 
said, picking up his cue. "You'd be surprised the things I've heard in here, and 
I'm happy to tell you there's not a single soul in St. Albans ever regretted 
talkin' to me."
Father MacNeill still hesitated, as if trying to make up his mind, though 
Engstrom suspected the man paused only to decide how much poison to throw in the 
well. "He's ... evil," the priest finally said. "Whenever there have been Conway 
men living in this town, there has been trouble." For the next five minutes he 
detailed the death of George Conway, as if Phil Engstrom had never heard the 
story before. "As the spiritual guardian of our community, I simply don't 
believe I can countenance his presence here," Father MacNeill finally concluded.
Phil Engstrom leaned back in his chair and nodded in satisfaction. "I do 
appreciate your comin' down here to fill me in on all this, Father Mack. I 
purely do. And I can tell you I'll give everything you've told me every 
consideration if Conway ever tries to bring a variance up before the council." 
He glanced at the clock on the wall with a practiced manner that would ensure 
that his visitor not only saw him, but thought he was trying to check the time 
surreptitiously. "It's people like you who make this town what it is," he went 
on, launching into what he and Marge called his Exit Speech. Sure enough, the 
priest was already getting up from his chair, so Engstrom quickly got to his own 
feet and strode around the desk to walk his visitor to the door. He went through 
the rest of the speech, putting a genial arm around the priest's shoulders as he 
opened the door. "I know how busy you are, and I can't thank you enough for 
cuttin' into your schedule."
When Father MacNeill had left, Phil Engstrom went back to his desk, sat down in 
the big black-leather executive chair the council had approved for him only last 
year, and swiveled around to gaze out the window. It was a view he never tired 
of. The town square was spread out across the street, and beyond that lay a 
neighborhood of generously proportioned old houses, most of them sitting on lots 
of at least half an acre, shaded by huge spreading oaks and magnolias that 
seemed to throw a comforting green quilt over the whole town. But in the midst 
of that neighborhood, its steeple poking through the leafy canopy like a needle 
through the quilt, was the church of St. Ignatius.
It was also a needle in Phil Engstrom's side, a constant reminder that his was 
not the only power base in St. Albans, and that if he wanted to keep his office, 
he'd better pay more than simple lip service to Father MacNeill.
Not that there could be anything to what the priest had told him; the very idea 
that Ted Conway was "evil" was ridiculous on the face of it. Still, if a man 
wanted to remain in that big black-leather chair—and Phil Engstrom very much 
liked being mayor of St. Albans—he had to choose his battles carefully, and Ted 
Conway's battle was one he didn't need to fight. Maybe it might be just as well 
to put a few well-placed words in certain of the town's ears, he thought. Of 
course, if he let Father Mack have his way on this, he'd have to find another 
issue—something trivial, preferably—upon which to thwart the priest, so MacNeill 
didn't start getting any ideas about who was really in charge. Sighing, and 
wondering if maybe he could trade off his support for the priest on this hotel 
deal for a few Sundays on the golf course, he reached for the phone. A few 
well-placed calls would get "a groundswell of public opinion" rolling against 
whatever plan this Conway person might have in mind. But just as his fingers 
touched the receiver, the instrument came alive, and he heard Myrtle Pettibone's 
voice float over the intercom.
"There's a Mr. Conway here to see you," his secretary said. "A Mr. Ted Conway?"
Phil hesitated, but only for a moment. Might as well at least have a look at the 
chicken whose head he was about to chop off. "Well, send him on in," he boomed, 
already preparing his warmest smile of welcome. "Don't keep him waiting, Myrt. 
Just send him on in!"
 
Half an hour later Phil Engstrom was once again alone in his office, but when he 
picked up the phone, it wasn't to start torpedoing Ted Conway's plan. In fact, 
sometime in the last thirty minutes he'd completely changed his mind about where 
he stood on this particular deal. Ted Conway, it turned out, wasn't the man he'd 
been expecting at all. In fact, he'd turned out to be a downright fine 
fellow—"charming" was the word his wife would have used—and everything he'd said 
had made perfect sense to Phil Engstrom. By the time the half-hour meeting had 
ended, he knew Conway was not only a man he could work with, but a man he could 
be friends with, as well. But if he was going to go against Father Mack on this 
thing—and he surely was—he would have to be subtle.
Dialing his home number, Phil drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk while 
he waited for Marge to answer, meanwhile steeling himself to keep even the 
slightest trace of annoyance out of his voice when she finally did. He'd learned 
years ago that there wasn't any point in riling up a horse you were planning to 
break. "I think we ought to be havin' those new people to a dinner party," he 
said after his wife had finished repeating every word she and her mother had 
exchanged that morning. "Maybe on Saturday night."
"This Saturday?" Marge fretted. Phil read her intonation perfectly: Marge always 
worried that if she called people for dinner less than two weeks in advance, it 
might look as though the Engstroms' calendar wasn't full. "Don't you think it's 
awfully late to be—"
"Now, honeychild," Phil cut in smoothly, "you know people always love your fried 
chicken. I can't think of a single person in this town who wouldn't drop 
whatever they're doing for one of your dinners. And I want you to invite the new 
people—the Conways." There was a long silence, and for a moment Phil was afraid 
Father Mack might already have talked to his wife. But when Marge finally spoke, 
he relaxed.
"You're up to something, aren't you?" she asked.
"Who, me?" Phil countered with exaggerated innocence. Home free.
"Don't you try to fool me," Marge scolded. "I know how you stay mayor of this 
town."
"And how you stay Mrs. Mayor," Phil replied. "Here's what I want you to do...." 
As he talked, he could almost see Marge making quick notes, already planning the 
menu, the flowers, the seating plan, and every other detail that would make the 
evening perfect.
Marge would set the stage.
He would introduce the cast.
But the rest would be up to Ted Conway; the man would have to sink or swim on 
his own.
Either way, nobody would ever be able to accuse Phil Engstrom of having taken a 
stand.
Still, he'd go this far. After all, Ted Conway had struck him as a hell of a 
nice fellow, and it couldn't hurt just to introduce the man to a few people.
Could it?


 
 
CHAPTER 16
 
 
The clouds gathering in the sky were a perfect reflection of Janet's mood—dark 
and angry, promising that before the day was over a major storm would rage over 
St. Albans. But there would be no storm in the Conway house that day. No matter 
what Ted's condition might be when he eventually came home—if he came home—she 
would ignore it. Her suitcase was already packed and waiting by the door next to 
the boxes she'd packed for the children. She would simply put Molly in the 
Toyota, pile the boxes in, and leave. If school wasn't yet out, she'd wait for 
the twins in front of St. Ignatius, and they'd leave from there.
No more arguments.
No more fights.
No more scenes.
But what if Ted didn't come home?
What if he'd wrecked the Toyota?
That won't happen, she told herself.
But what if it did?
She tried to come up with a list of people she might call to come and rescue her 
and the children from St. Albans. Only there wasn't a single person she felt she 
could ask to come down and pick them up.
And that, she thought morosely as she gazed out at the gathering thunderheads, 
was something she should have thought about years ago, when she first realized 
Ted's drinking was eroding her friendships. In those days, she'd told herself 
her friends were wrong about Ted, but now, nearly twenty years later, she knew 
they hadn't been.
And now, when she'd finally decided it was over, there was no one left for her 
to call.
Janet was about to turn away from the living room window when she saw a car pull 
into the driveway. A moment later a woman picked her way through the tangle in 
the front yard—a woman whose bearing marked her as someone who counted, at least 
in St. Albans. Though her dress was linen, she was the type who could wear it 
all day without a single wrinkle daring to show. Her hair was ash-blond and 
framed her face in the simple blunt cut that seemed never to go out of style for 
a certain sort of woman.
"I'm Marge Engstrom," the woman said as Janet opened the door. She was smiling 
easily, her hand extended. "For the last half hour I've been trying to think of 
some clever reason why I'm here, but I'm afraid I'm not very good at 
dissembling. My husband is the mayor of St. Albans, and he sent me. It seems you 
have a problem. May I come in?" Somehow, Marge Engstrom managed to slip through 
the door before Janet really thought about whether she wanted to invite her in 
or not. "This is a terrible intrusion, isn't it? But since you don't have a 
phone yet, what could I do?" She scanned the expanse of the huge entry hall and 
her smile faded. "Oh, my, this is a mess, isn't it?" As she heard her own words, 
she reddened. "Oh, Lord, listen to me. Phil always says I talk before I think, 
and there I go. I'm so sorry. I—"
"It's all right," Janet assured her. "It is a mess. In fact, it's a horrible 
mess!" Stop! she told herself. Whatever the reason she's here, it isn't to hear 
about your marriage. She took a deep breath, then started over. "Would you like 
a cup of coffee?"
"Actually, I'd like to see this house," Marge told her. "And maybe you can tell 
me just what it is that has Father MacNeill in such an uproar?"
By the time they entered the kitchen half an hour later, Janet had decided she 
liked Marge Engstrom's directness and the warmth the woman exuded like a 
comfortable old blanket. Marge had told her exactly why she was there, and what 
the purpose of her proposed dinner party was. For her part, Janet had held back 
from unburdening herself to this woman she barely knew.
Still, she had to say something. But what?
That she was going to be out of town for a few days and they would set something 
up when she got back? "Don't ever lie, Janet," she heard her mother admonishing 
her from the dim reaches of her childhood. "Lying only makes a bad situation 
worse." If she told the truth—that her husband was a drunk, and she was planning 
to leave him that very day—what chance would Ted ever have—
Ted!? Why was she worrying about him? Besides, didn't Marge Engstrom—and 
everyone else in St. Albans, for that matter—deserve to know the truth? Before 
she could say anything, though, she saw their old Toyota pull into the driveway, 
towing a trailer filled with more building supplies—at least five times as much 
as Ted had brought home the day before.
Who was going to unload it all, with Jared at school? she wondered. Unless she 
did it herself, she was sure the supplies would remain in the open trailer to be 
ruined as soon as the steadily building storm broke. And when Ted heard about 
Father MacNeill's visit to Phil Engstrom, she knew exactly what would happen.
First he'd get mad.
Then he'd get drunk.
Then he'd start feeling sorry for himself.
Then he'd start blaming her, or the kids, or anyone else he could think of. And 
given the hangover he was still undoubtedly nursing after last night, she 
suspected he'd probably already had a couple of drinks this morning. She braced 
herself for the scene to come, wishing there were some way to get Marge Engstrom 
out of the house, or at least to warn her. But it was too late. Ted was already 
coming through the back door.
"Do I smell coffee?" he asked. "Boy, would a cup of that taste good right now!" 
Janet, already on her feet, started toward the stove, but Ted waved her back to 
her chair. "Sit, sit! I can get it myself." Picking a cup out of the sink, he 
rinsed it, and, as he filled it with coffee, offered one of his dazzling smiles 
to Marge Engstrom. "I'm Ted Conway," he said. "And you'd be Phil Engstrom's 
wife, right?"
Janet stared at him, bewildered. After last night, his eyes should be bloodshot, 
his face haggard, and his mood even nastier than it had been yesterday 
afternoon. But his eyes were clear, there was a buoyancy to his step, and he was 
treating Marge Engstrom to the brilliant white smile Janet hadn't seen in years.
A smile she knew would darken into black rage as soon as Marge explained why 
she'd come, to invite them to a dinner party she was proposing for Saturday 
evening.
But Ted's smile didn't darken. It simply softened into an expression that looked 
more like sympathetic regret than anything else.
"Well, I guess I can't expect everyone to think my idea's as terrific as I do," 
he said. "I'm just glad we're not going to be totally on our own." His eyes 
shifted to Janet. "Do we have any plans for Saturday night?"
As if we've had plans for any Saturday night in the last ten years, Janet 
thought bitterly. She shook her head.
Ted turned back to Marge Engstrom. "Then we'll see you on Saturday. Can we bring 
anything?"
Bring anything? Janet silently echoed. The only things Ted had ever taken to a 
party were the half-dozen drinks he'd belted down before they got there. But 
what did it matter, really? With her and the kids gone, the odds of Ted even 
remembering the dinner party were next to zero, and the chances of him showing 
up sober were far less than that. And whatever chance he might have had at 
enlisting the mayor's support would vanish.
But it wasn't her problem anymore.
"I'll have to check the calendar," she said. She'd been covering up for Ted for 
so many years that her voice betrayed none of her emotions. "Perhaps I'll call 
you tomorrow?" But when Marge left a few minutes later, the neutrality vanished 
from her tone. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "Do you have any idea what 
it's like to wake up and find that your mate—who was so stinking drunk he 
couldn't stand up straight the last time you saw him—has taken off in the car?" 
Ted opened his mouth to reply, but Janet didn't give him the chance. "Of course 
you don't! And you never will, as long as you're married to me. But that's going 
to end, Ted. I've had it! Do you understand? I've finally and forever had it!" 
She paused, her breath momentarily spent, and braced herself for the explosion.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I don't know why you've put up with it all these 
years."
The genuine contrition she heard in his voice threw Janet totally off stride. 
She'd been prepared for the usual scene: a fight, building until she was finally 
reduced to tears. Only then, after he'd shouted her down, battering at her 
defenses until she had none left, would he finally gather her in his arms and 
promise that things would be different. But never, not in all the years since 
the drinking had started, had he suggested that she shouldn't have put up with 
his drinking at all.
But even now she was certain that whatever he said, his motivations were 
simple—to keep her with him, to keep her taking care of him. Her eyes narrowed 
suspiciously. "Why would you know?" she asked, her voice reflecting the 
exhaustion she suddenly felt. "You've been too drunk to know anything, haven't 
you? Too drunk to know why you lose your jobs, and too drunk to know how 
frightened your kids are of you. And way too drunk to know what you've done to 
me."
Molly, standing up in her playpen and clutching at the netting with her tiny 
fingers, began to cry, and Janet reached down to scoop her up. "It's all right, 
baby," she cooed. "Mommy and Daddy aren't going to have a fight. We're not ever 
going to fight again." Her eyes shifted back to Ted. "I'm leaving this 
afternoon," she told him, "as soon as I get the few things I'm taking with me 
into the car." Scout, who had been curled up on the floor, suddenly rose, 
whining almost as if he knew what she was saying. "Don't worry, boy," she told 
the big dog. "We'll take you, too." Once again she braced herself against the 
attack Ted might mount on her determination, marshaling her grievances like an 
army, ready to repel anything he might say. Once again, he surprised her.
"Let me tell you what happened last night," he said so quietly it commanded her 
full attention.
But she didn't lower her guard an inch. "You mean you remember?"
Ted nodded. "Every bit of it. After you left, I kept drinking, and started 
wandering around the house. And everywhere I went, all I saw was a mess." A 
painful smile twisted his lips. "It was like looking at myself," he went on, his 
gesture sweeping over the kitchen and beyond, to the tangled mess of the grounds 
surrounding the house. "Everything about it's been let go, just like I've let 
myself go. Another few years, and it's literally going to fall apart," He turned 
back to Janet and met her gaze steadily. "Just like me," he went on. "Last night 
it finally came to me. I'm not just killing our marriage, and my relations with 
my kids, and my career. If you can call that job at the Majestic a career," he 
added derisively, but without even a hint of the self-pity Janet had always 
heard in his previous pleas. "I'm killing myself, too. I decided I didn't want 
to die."
Janet felt the first tiny crack develop in her defenses, and fought against it. 
"And," she asked, deliberately edging her voice with sarcasm, "having stumbled 
drunkenly upon this great truth, what exactly did you decide to do about it?"
Ted flinched, but didn't try to turn away. "I made myself sick," he replied. "I 
went down in the basement, and I threw up more than I've ever thrown up in my 
life." For the first time since he'd begun to talk, a genuine smile played 
around the corners of his mouth, and a sparkle of humor lit his eyes. "And you 
have to admit, I've thrown up some doozies in my life." When Janet failed to 
respond to his stab at a joke, his smile fled. "Look at me," he said softly. 
"Just look at my eyes."
Don't do it, Janet told herself. But she could feel the cracks in her resolve 
widening, and finally she allowed herself to look into his eyes.
Something had changed.
It wasn't just their clarity, which was surprising enough, given how much he'd 
been drinking last night. Still, if he'd really thrown up most of it, it might 
be possible that he'd slept it off.
It was as if he read her mind: "When you drink as much as I've been drinking, it 
takes a hell of a lot to bring on a hangover."
Janet made no reply, but still she gazed into his eyes. There was something 
familiar there, something dimly remembered.
And then she knew. It was as if she were looking into Ted's eyes when they'd 
first met, and she'd felt as if she could sink right into him through his eyes, 
or float in their blue clarity forever, needing nothing else but him, and his 
caress, and the look in his eyes when they beheld her.
"Come with me," he said now. Lifting Molly out of her arms and settling her 
gently back into the playpen, Ted took Janet's hand and led her out of the 
kitchen, through the entry hall and the living room, to the small room in which 
she'd found him last night.
The empty bottle still lay on the sofa, and the box of full ones still sat on 
the hearth, just as it had last night. As Ted lifted a bottle of vodka from the 
box, broke its seal, and opened it, Janet felt a cold emptiness in her stomach. 
Was he planning to prove that he'd changed by having a drink? But instead of 
raising the bottle to his lips, he held it over the sink in the wet bar that had 
been built next to the fireplace and tipped it up.
Its contents flowed down the drain.
He reached for another bottle, and drained it, too.
And then another, and another, until every bottle in the box was empty. "Have 
you ever known me to do that before?" he asked.
In her mind, all the assurances and all the promises he'd ever made echoed.
"I don't have to drink—I like to drink."
"Just because it's here doesn't mean I'll drink it."
"I won't touch a drop, but we have to have something to serve company, don't 
we?"
How many times had she heard it? How many variations had there been? And the 
couple of times she'd simply poured out his liquor herself, he'd only replaced 
it, usually within the hour. He'd even had a rationalization for that: "Even if 
I decide to have a drink—which I won't—wouldn't you rather I had it here?"
No! she had wanted to scream. I don't want you to drink at all!
But no matter what she'd said, it didn't do any good. There had never been a 
time—unless they ran completely out of money—when there wasn't any liquor in the 
house. Then she remembered the trailer behind the Toyota.
Again it was as if he'd read her mind. "And I didn't buy any more," he said. 
There was a flash of lightning, a crash of thunder shook the house, and the 
first drops of rain began to fall. "Oh, Jesus," Ted cried. "I've got to get all 
the stuff in the trailer into the carriage house before it gets ruined!" 
Dropping the last of the bottles into the sink, he raced through the house and 
out the back door. By the time Janet caught up with him, he was already digging 
deep into the trailer's depths. "There's some plastic drop cloths—" His hand 
closed on something and he pulled it out. "Here!" he cried. Ripping a plastic 
bag open, he pulled one of the polyethylene sheets out and began shaking it 
open. A minute later he and Janet had it stretched out over the trailer, 
protecting its contents from the storm. But already the wind was starting to 
pull at it; in a few minutes it would be gone. "Get in the car," Ted told her as 
the rain came down harder. "I'll open the carriage house doors, and you can pull 
it in."
"The garage isn't big enough," Janet protested.
"Back it in," Ted replied. "I'll guide you." The rain was pouring down in sheets 
now.
"But you'll get soaked—" Janet began, but Ted was already pulling the double 
doors of the carriage house open. She got into the Toyota, and a moment later 
Ted was calling out instructions to her.
Janet edged the trailer back, twisting the wheel first one way, then another, 
trying to maneuver the trailer through the doors into the shelter of the 
carriage house. Twice she had to pull all the way forward and start over again.
Meanwhile the rain came down harder, until she could hardly see Ted, even with 
the windshield wipers going full blast.
On the third try, she managed to ease the trailer—and the back half of the 
Toyota—into the carriage house, and cringed when she felt the right rear fender 
scrape against the doorframe. Getting out, she dashed into the shelter of the 
structure, where she found Ted adding another sheet of plastic to the trailer, 
and tying both sheets down with a length of clothesline. "I wondered why I 
bought this," he said as he secured the last corner. "Now I know." He looked up 
through the rafters at the badly leaking roof. "Maybe I ought to get up there 
and fix that right now."
"Are you crazy?" Janet demanded. "You'd slip off and break your neck!"
"But—"
"No 'buts,' " Janet said. "Let's get in the house before it gets any worse."
Together, they sprinted across the yard to the back door, ducking into the 
kitchen just as another bolt of lightning ripped at the clouds, followed by a 
crash of thunder that sent Molly into a fit of terrified screaming. This time it 
was Ted who plucked her out of the playpen.
"It's okay," he crooned. "Just a little thunder. Can't hurt Daddy's little 
sweetheart."
As she watched him soothe their youngest child, Janet tried to decide whether 
this was just another performance designed to keep her here.
But if this were an act, it would take a far better actor than Ted had ever 
been.
Soaking wet, he was gently soothing Molly's fears away, and when the little girl 
was finally quiet again, he actually smiled at Janet. "I think it went pretty 
well out there, all things considered," he said.
Janet looked straight at him. "You do know I hit the doorpost with the right 
rear fender, don't you?" she asked.
Ted shrugged. "With that car, who's going to notice? I'm amazed you were able to 
do it at all, the way that rain's coming down." After a moment's silence he 
said, "I know you have to go." His voice was very quiet. "I'll get the trailer 
unhitched." He hesitated again, and she could almost feel him searching for the 
right words. But it was as if he knew it was too late, that there weren't any 
right words anymore. Once again his eyes—as blue and clear and deep as on the 
day she'd met him—found hers. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm sorry for all of 
it." He started toward the back door, and she knew—knew deep in her soul—that he 
was telling her the truth.
Something inside him had, indeed, finally changed.
"Ted?"
He paused, then turned to look at her.
"Maybe one more day," she heard herself say. "Maybe the kids and I can stay one 
more day, and see what happens."


 
 
CHAPTER 17
 
 
The jangling of the bell signaling the end of the school day startled Kim so 
badly she almost jumped out of the cramped school desk at which she'd been 
trying to unsnarl a seemingly unsolvable quadratic equation. With each period of 
the day, she'd felt more and more as if some terrible mistake had been made and 
she'd been put in the wrong classes. But all the rest of the kids were her age, 
and none of them appeared to be as unprepared as she felt. Was it possible that 
the public school she and Jared had gone to was as far behind the Catholic 
school as it seemed? But it must be, to judge from her classmates, at least as 
far as math, science, and French were concerned. The rest of it wasn't so 
bad—she'd always been good at history and English. But the hard classes—or those 
that had always been difficult for her—were nearly impossible. As she stuffed 
her books into her backpack and headed for her locker, she wondered if Jared 
felt as lost. If he did, they were both going to be in trouble. At least in 
school they'd always had different talents and were able to help each other out.
At her locker, halfway along the narrow main corridor on the second floor of the 
building, she worked the combination, and had a sinking sensation in her stomach 
when the handle refused to budge. It wasn't until the third try that she 
realized what was wrong—she was using the combination from the old school. As 
her fingers rotated the dial one more time, she sensed someone standing behind 
her.
Someone who made her feel oddly nervous. She tried to concentrate on working the 
combination, but after the first number her mind went blank.
How many turns was it? Two? Three?
And what number was she supposed to stop at? Then it came to her: twenty-six!
Or was it eight?
No! Eight was the last number!
She started over again, but could sense that whoever was behind her had moved 
closer, and now the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up.
What did he want?
He was very close to her now. So close she could hear him breathing, almost feel 
his breath on the back of her neck.
He was going to touch her!
Her skin crawled. At any moment she would feel his fingers on her. Unable to 
stand it any longer, she whirled around to confront the person behind her. "What 
do you—" she began, and abruptly stopped. Jared! It was just Jared! "My God," 
she breathed, sagging against her locker. "You scared me! How come you didn't 
say anything?"
His eyes darted in one direction and then the other. Was he looking for someone? 
Kim scanned the corridor, seeing several faces she recognized, even some she 
could put names to. But who would Jared be worried about? "Who are you looking 
for?" she asked.
He frowned. "No one. But I think some of the nuns are looking for me," he said, 
his voice barely audible.
Kim stared at her brother. First he'd walked out without eating breakfast, not 
even waiting for her. Then she'd hardly seen him all day. She'd looked for him 
at lunchtime, but he hadn't been in the cafeteria, and so finally she sat with a 
girl named Sandy Engstrom and some of her friends. But she'd spent most of the 
hour keeping an eye out for Jared, and hadn't been able to concentrate on 
anything they were saying. "Why would they be looking for you?" she asked now. 
"Did you do something wrong?"
Jared shook his head. "They just don't like me."
Kim rolled her eyes impatiently. "What do you mean, they don't like you? They 
act like they don't like anyone."
Jared's expression hardened. "I'm telling you, they don't like me! All day, 
they've been watching me."
"Watching you?" Kim echoed. Why would the nuns be watching him? But then she 
thought she knew—he was feeling the same thing she was, that everything was 
going to be harder here. For some reason he was taking it personally. "It 
doesn't have anything to do with you," she protested. "It's just different here, 
that's all." She turned back to her locker, her fingers once again working at 
the combination, and finally the lock snapped open. "I've been feeling like some 
kind of retard all day, but it doesn't have anything to do with the sisters. 
It's just—"
But Jared wasn't listening to her anymore.
In fact, he wasn't even behind her. As she closed her locker, she saw him 
disappearing down the stairs at the end of the hall. She stared after him.
What was going on? Why was he acting so strange today?
But it wasn't just that he was acting strange. It was something else—something 
more.
It was the Twin Thing. She remembered noticing it this morning, when she felt 
the odd sensation of being alone, as if the mental connection she and Jared had 
always shared had suddenly been severed. At first she'd attributed it to Jared's 
moodiness, and was certain that by the time she got to school, their link would 
be mended. But it hadn't been, and all day she'd felt an unfamiliar loneliness, 
which she'd never experienced before.
Just now, when he was standing right behind her—less than a foot away—she'd had 
no idea it was him. That had never happened before. All her life, she'd always 
known when Jared was nearby, always known when he came into a room she was in. 
When they were really little, they'd even made a game of it, trying to fool each 
other, to sneak up on one another, each hoping to catch the other off guard. But 
neither of them had succeeded.
Until today.
And then she understood why Jared was feeling so strange. The same thing had 
happened to him! Of course! That had to be it. She hurried after her brother, 
threading her way through the crowd of students that milled in the hallway, then 
skipping down the stairs two at a time. Bursting out the front door, she looked 
around for Jared and spotted him half a block away, talking to Luke Roberts. She 
hurried toward them, calling out his name. But as she approached, both boys went 
silent, and when Jared looked at her, she had the impression that he wasn't glad 
to see her. His words confirmed it: "Can't you just leave me alone?"
Kim stopped short. "I—I just—" She floundered, unable to find the words she was 
looking for. Jared continued to stare at her, and now, in sunlight that seemed 
even brighter than normal in the wake of the storm that had passed through that 
morning, she saw that something in his eyes was different. Where before she'd 
always felt that she could see right into her brother through his eyes, now she 
sensed a curtain between them, as if there was something he didn't want her to 
know.
Something he was hiding from her.
Muffin! That must be it—he must have found out what happened to her cat, and 
didn't want to tell her. Which meant... Kim's heart sank when it occurred to her 
why Jared wouldn't tell her if he'd found her pet. "It's Muffin, isn't it?" she 
asked. Jared's face remained impassive. "You found her, didn't you?" She thought 
she saw something flicker in his eyes, but it was gone so fast she wasn't sure 
she'd seen it at all. And once again the Twin Thing was telling her nothing. But 
somehow, even though Jared had betrayed nothing, she was certain she was right.
Muffin wasn't coming home. She felt her eyes sting with tears, but managed to 
hold them back. "I—I just thought we could walk home together," she finally 
stammered, for the first time in her life feeling unwilling to share her 
emotions with her brother. Before he spoke, she knew what he was going to say, 
and this time it didn't have anything to do with the Twin Thing, or with Muffin. 
This time she could read it in the expression on his face.
"I'm gonna hang with Luke for a while," he told her. "You go ahead."
Suddenly all the uneasiness, all the worry Kim had been feeling, coalesced into 
something else.
Anger.
If that was the way he felt—if he just wanted to cut her off—fine!
Without another word, she turned and walked quickly away, her head high, her 
back straight, determined that Jared wouldn't see the tears that glistened in 
her eyes.
 
When his sister was gone, Jared turned back to Luke Roberts. "Well, what about 
it?" he asked. "If I show you where the cabin is, will you tell me who lives in 
it?"
Luke uneasily shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "How come you want 
to know?" he hedged. "When'd you see this place?"
Jared's voice hardened. "Someone killed my sister's cat," he told Luke. "He 
nailed its skin to the back wall of our carriage house." Luke's eyes narrowed. 
"My dog tracked him back to a cabin, but there were a couple of hounds guarding 
it."
"Maybe you oughta just forget about it," Luke suggested. "Can't your sister just 
get another cat?"
Jared's gaze fixed steadily on Luke. "You chicken?" he asked, his voice low, his 
eyes boring into Luke's. The other boy's jaw tightened and his right hand 
clenched into a fist. But Jared held his gaze steady on Luke, and finally the 
clenched fist relaxed.
"Okay," Luke said. "Let's go."
 
Kim was so totally preoccupied with the confrontation she'd just had with Jared 
that she barely noticed the pungent scent of smoke in the air. But when she 
turned the corner, she saw it—a great cloud of smoke was billowing up from—
The house!
Her heart pounding, she broke into a run, then slowed as she realized it wasn't 
the house that was on fire at all. There was a huge bonfire burning behind the 
house, a fire that was sending up clouds of steam and smoke so large they all 
but hid the building from her view. As she approached, her father came around 
the side of the house, into her line of sight. He was stripped to the waist, his 
skin glistening with sweat, as he pulled kudzu off the magnolia tree. As she 
came into the yard, he hurled a great armful of the tangled vines onto the fire. 
The flames leaped upon the leafy offering like a voracious beast, spitting new 
plumes of smoke and steam into the sky and filling the afternoon with hissing 
and crackling as it devoured the tangled green mass. Kim stopped and hung back, 
staying well away from the ravening flames. Even when the fire began to die 
back, she still watched the scene warily.
Was her father drunk? But he didn't look like he was, and when she scanned the 
area for the drink he invariably had with him whenever he was home, she saw no 
sign of anything—not even a beer. But the kudzu had all but vanished. The 
carriage house had been stripped of it, as had the house, and even the mounds of 
it that had overgrown the yard were all but gone. Where this morning the grounds 
had been an almost unbroken sea of the invading vine, now she could recognize 
the remnants of what had once been a lawn, along with the skeletons of shrubs 
that the kudzu had long since choked to death.
"It's not quite as bad as it looks," she heard her father say. Startled, Kim 
turned to find him standing only a few feet away from her. Instinctively, she 
drew back to distance herself from the alcoholic fumes he usually exhaled. "Take 
it easy, Princess," he said, smiling at her and using the pet name she hadn't 
heard for years. "Believe it or not, I'm not drunk."
His words startled Kim almost as much as the way he'd addressed her. She tried 
to remember the last time he'd even admitted to drinking too much, let alone 
being drunk, and the answer came to her almost as quickly as she asked the 
question.
Never.
In her entire memory, Kim could not recall her father doing anything but insist 
that he didn't have a drinking problem. "I didn't think you were," she blurted 
out so quickly he couldn't help but know it was exactly what she'd been 
thinking. She braced herself against the wave of fury she was certain was about 
to break over her. But to her amazement, her father kept smiling.
"Of course you were," he said. "Let's face it—it's been a few years since you've 
seen me when I wasn't drunk."
Kim's mind spun. What on earth had happened today? "I—I didn't mean—I mean, I 
meant—" she stammered.
Her father reached out as if to pull her close, but stopped himself. "Consider 
yourself hugged," he said, eyeing his own filthy hands and sweaty torso. "If I 
really did hug you, I think you could consider it absolute proof that I've been 
drinking. But I really haven't. At least not since last night." Kim's eyes 
flickered toward the house, and her father's next words told her he again had 
guessed what she was thinking. "Your mother's giving me one last chance," he 
said. "We had a long talk this morning—not a fight," he added quickly, reading 
the expression on her face. "A real, genuine talk." He hesitated, and Kim had 
the feeling he was trying to decide how much to tell her. Then he went on, and 
again his words surprised her. "I know I haven't been the best father," he said. 
"And I'm not going to make up any excuses. I'm not going to try to blame my 
failures on anyone but myself...."
He continued to talk directly, honestly, to her for five minutes, and concluded, 
"I'm not asking you to forgive me, and I'm sure not asking you to forget. All I 
can do is apologize for what I've put you and everyone else in this family 
through. I know there's no way I can make it up to you, but I'm going to be 
better from now on." As Kim's eyes flooded with tears, her father smiled, his 
face lighting up. "Of course, practically anything would be better than what 
I've been, wouldn't it?"
Kim hesitated, then nodded. Part of her wanted to throw her arms around her 
father's neck and feel him wrap her up in the kind of hug she hadn't felt since 
she was a little girl. But another part of her—the part that had learned not to 
trust what her father said—held back. As she was sorting out her emotions, 
trying to decide what she wanted to say, her father seemed to read her mind the 
same way her brother always had.
"Don't say anything," he said. "In fact, if I were you, I think I'd be pretty 
suspicious right now."
She looked up at him, gazing into his eyes for the first time in years. Was he 
telling the truth? She wanted to believe him, wanted more than anything to trust 
what he was saying. Unconsciously, her fingers went to the small golden cross 
her great-aunt had given her, as if somehow the amulet might guide her.
"It's okay," her father told her. "Why don't you go in and talk to your mother?" 
He glanced up at the sun. "I've got about three more hours to get this mess 
cleaned up, and if I hurry, I just might make it."
Kim watched as her father went back to work, hacking at the thick vines that 
were still wound around a few of the old oak and willow trees that shaded the 
grounds, and hauling the vines down from the lower branches. The kudzu fought 
him, reluctant to give up its hold on the trees, but in the end it crashed in a 
jumble around his feet and was fed to the consuming fire. Watching until the 
flames had devoured the vines, Kim finally turned away and went into the house.
She saw the change as soon as she entered the kitchen: the boxes stacked against 
the far wall this morning were gone; their contents, she would discover, had 
been put away in the cupboards above the long counters. The kitchen itself was 
scrubbed clean, the rust stains gone from the sink. The tired refrigerator 
they'd brought from Shreveport was gone; in its place was a gleaming new one, 
and the old-fashioned range on which her mother had somehow managed to cook 
dinner the night before had vanished as well, replaced by an immense 
double-ovened, six-burner affair that looked like it should have been in a 
restaurant.
"Mom?" she called out. "You here?"
"In the studio," her mother called back.
The studio, too, had been transformed since yesterday. The rest of the windows 
had been cleaned, and everything unpacked and put away. Molly was in her 
playpen, playing with a doll. Her mother was perched on a stool, a stick of 
charcoal in her right hand, carefully eyeing a canvas on the easel before her. 
When her mother turned to look at her, Kim instantly understood that the changes 
she'd already witnessed weren't confined to the yard, the house, and her father.
The strain, the misery, she'd seen in her mother's face was gone. Everything 
about her was different. Her eyes, which had looked so exhausted this morning, 
were sparkling, and she seemed somehow to have gotten younger.
"Come and look," her mother said before Kim could speak. "Tell me what you 
think!"
Almost warily, Kim approached the canvas, not sure what to expect. As she gazed 
at it, she realized that whatever she might have guessed her mother was working 
on, it would not have been what she was looking at.
It was a sketch of an outdoor scene, but it bore no resemblance to the ruined 
landscape that lay beyond the windows. Drawn onto the canvas was a formal 
garden. Although it was still little more than a charcoal sketch, the 
composition her mother had limned gave Kim the eerie feeling that she was 
somehow looking into the past. It was as if her mother had imagined the garden 
as it might have looked a century ago. There was only one human figure in the 
garden, and even though it, too, had been realized with a few quick strokes, Kim 
recognized it as her father.
But not the father she'd known most of her life.
This was the father she'd met outside a few minutes ago, his expression open, 
his eyes seeming to smile though the image was barely developed.
So it wasn't just toward her that he'd changed, Kim thought. Her mother had seen 
it, too. "What happened?" she asked quietly, her eyes remaining on the figure as 
she waited for her mother to answer. "Would you please tell me what's going on? 
This morning—"
"This morning seems like a lifetime ago," Janet replied. She moved closer to 
Kim, looking at the image of Ted over her daughter's shoulder. "Something 
happened to him last night," she said. "It's like—" She hesitated, searching for 
the right words. "It's like he finally woke up," she said. Choosing her words 
carefully, she related the day's events. "He's been working all day," she 
eventually finished. "A truck showed up with the new stove and refrigerator, and 
after he helped me with the kitchen, he went to work outside, and—well, you saw 
for yourself what he's been doing."
When she went up to her room a few minutes later, Kim tried to pull it all 
together in her mind. Only this morning the house had been filled with tension.
Her father had been gone.
Her mother had been ready to leave him—had even told her she was going to.
And now everything was different.
But how long would it last?
Despite what her mother and her father had both told her, she still wasn't ready 
to believe it.
Something, she was sure, was wrong.
Very wrong.


 
 
CHAPTER 18
 
 
How much farther?" Luke Roberts asked. Jared glanced around, uncertain where 
they were. When they left the school half an hour ago, he'd thought about going 
back to his house and following the same trail Scout had led him along in the 
early hours of the morning. But as they started out, he had the idea that he 
could find the trail just by heading east from the edge of town into the woods. 
As they made their way along the labyrinth of paths, though, everything started 
to look alike. A couple of times he'd caught Luke eyeing him suspiciously, and 
at one point could see that Luke was about to ask him if he even knew where he 
was.
Despite his uncertainty, Jared silenced him with a look, unwilling to admit that 
they might be lost. Then, fifteen minutes ago, they came to a place where two 
trails crossed, and he'd known.
This was it, he thought. This was the trail.
But how had he known?
He'd scanned the area carefully, looking for something that stood out, that he 
might have remembered from his predawn foray with Scout. But there was nothing. 
And besides, when he was here before, he'd made his way through the darkness 
with nothing but moonlight, just following where Scout led.
And yet he knew. This was the right trail.
"This way," he announced.
"Yeah, sure," Luke drawled, hitching up the jeans that threatened to slide off 
his hips. "This don't look any different than any of the..." His voice died away 
as Jared fixed him with the same look that had silenced him a few minutes 
earlier.
Now, though, Jared slowed.
Close.
They were very close.
Once again he scanned the forest, looking for any sign of a cabin. Off to the 
left, barely visible through the tangle of kudzu that was spreading everywhere, 
he could make out the glimmering of sunlight on water.
A lake. Had the cabin he'd seen early this morning been close to a lake? He 
didn't know.
"Ahead," he said softly. "It's right up ahead."
Luke's brows arched skeptically. "I don't know," he replied. "Maybe we oughta 
just go back to town and go get a Coke or somethin'."
But Jared was moving along the trail again. A slight breeze had come up, and he 
stopped. "You smell anything?" he asked, sniffing.
Luke shook his head. "Do I look like some kinda hound or something?"
That was it! The dogs he'd heard last night! He could smell them! "Come on," he 
said. "We're almost there."
Once again Luke hesitated, but in the end gave Jared no argument. Leading the 
way, Jared crept forward, waiting for the dogs to begin baying.
This afternoon, though, they were silent, and suddenly Jared knew why. If he 
could smell them, he was downwind. They couldn't smell him.
He came to a bend in the trail. Though there was still no tree or rock that he 
remembered, he knew that as soon as they rounded the bend, they would see the 
cabin huddled in the small clearing. And a moment later, there it was.
Now, in the bright sunlight, Jared could see the lake. It lay only a few yards 
beyond the cabin. The bank was low and muddy, and there were a couple of old 
wooden rowboats—so worn they didn't look as if they could even float—lying on 
the shore, tied uselessly to a tree with rotting cotton rope.
Curled up in the shade of the cabin were two dogs.
"That's it," Jared said softly. "You know who lives there?"
Luke said nothing, but Jared knew immediately that he'd seen this cabin before. 
"Come on," he said, his voice rising. "Tell me!"
"Jake Cumberland," Luke Roberts finally said. "This is his place."
"Who is he?" Jared pressed.
Luke's expression turned wary. "Just a trapper," he replied. "He's always lived 
out here."
Jared's eyes narrowed. "You're scared of him, aren't you?"
Luke paled, but shook his head.
"Bullshit," Jared said. "Tell me the truth."
"There's ... stories," Luke admitted. "About his ma."
"What kind of stories?"
"She was supposed to be some kind of voodoo queen or something." Luke's eyes 
shifted away from Jared. "An' they say she worked for your uncle before she 
disappeared."
"Disappeared?" Jared repeated. "What do you mean, disappeared? You mean she just 
took off?"
Luke shrugged. "Nobody knows. Leastwise, nobody I ever talked to knows. But my 
ma says the last time anyone ever saw her was the night before your uncle hung 
himself." He reddened slightly. "My ma says she heard your uncle might have 
killed her. She says there was all kinds of talk about him and Jake's ma. Like 
maybe they were gettin' it on, and she was gonna tell. So he killed her." As 
Jared's fists clenched and his jaw tightened, Luke held up his hands. "Hey, 
don't get pissed at me. All I'm tellin' you is what I heard."
But Jared was no longer looking at Luke. His eyes were fixed on the cabin. It 
cowered in the humid afternoon heat like an exhausted, dying dog. Every one of 
its windows was cracked—several panes were missing entirely—and whatever paint 
the weathered boards might once have worn was long gone. There was a sagging 
front porch with no railing, and most of the roof was covered with corrugated 
metal, badly rusted by the Louisiana heat and rain.
Though he wasn't certain why, Jared knew the cabin was empty.
His eyes shifted from the cabin itself to the two hounds.
As if sensing his gaze, both dogs scrambled to their feet, tensing. As they 
caught sight of him, they went on point, tails held straight back, eyes fixed on 
him. As Jared took a step toward them, the wind shifted and the two dogs caught 
his scent.
He moved a step closer, and now the dogs lunged forward, the wail of their 
baying ripping the quiet of the afternoon.
"You nuts, Jared?" Luke Roberts demanded. "What if Jake's in there?"
"He's not," Jared said. "He's nowhere around here."
"How the hell do you know?" Luke asked, but Jared didn't bother to reply.
He moved closer to the two dogs, now struggling at the end of their chains, 
their teeth bared, their baying dropping to low snarls as they tried to get at 
him.
He stopped a foot beyond the reach of the nearest dog—the one whose chain was a 
foot or so shorter than the first, who leaped and thrashed as it struggled to 
get closer.
"You want me?" Jared asked, squatting low and extending his right hand out 
toward the snarling animal. "That what you want? You think you want a piece of 
me?"
The dog howled with rage and threw itself against its chain, lost its balance, 
and skidded in the mud the morning's rainstorm had left. Writhing for several 
seconds, it regained its footing and lunged at Jared once more.
Jared extended his fingers until they were within inches of the dog's snapping 
teeth. "That it?" he taunted. "That what you want?"
"Are you crazy?" Luke called. "If he gets loose—"
But Jared wasn't listening. "Try it," he whispered. "Go on, just try it. See 
what happens."
He darted his fingers out, and the dog's jaws snapped shut on them.
Luke howled as if he himself had been bitten. "Jesus!"
"Got a taste?" Jared whispered, his eyes fixed on the dog. Abruptly, the dog 
dropped back to cower on the ground. While the other animal continued its 
baying, still twisting to get at Jared, he reached down and put his fingers 
around the cowering dog's neck. "Not gonna do that again," he said softly. "Not 
ever gonna do that again!"
His fingers tightened around the animal's neck, and then he gave it a fast, hard 
jerk.
The animal screamed once, a high-pitched shriek of pain that was cut off as its 
neck snapped. It dropped back into the mud.
Luke stared mutely at the limp animal. "You killed him," he whispered.
Jared turned to look at him. "He bit me," he said, his voice reflecting no 
emotion. "What did you expect me to do, pat him on the head?"
The second dog, silent now, sniffed at its litter mate's lifeless corpse. Then 
it slunk back until it was huddled against the wall of the cabin.
Removing the chain from the dog's neck, Jared picked it up.
"What are you going to do with it?" Luke asked, his voice trembling.
Jared made no reply. Instead, he turned and carried the dead dog into Jake 
Cumberland's cabin.
The door closed behind him.
 
Jake Cumberland had been out on the lake most of the afternoon. The battered 
bucket that served him as a makeshift creel held half a dozen catfish—plenty for 
him and the two hounds. After he'd caught the last fish, about an hour ago, he 
thought about heading back home and taking the hounds out for a while. Check a 
few traps, maybe even do some hunting. But after being up most of last night, he 
felt tired; what his ma would have called bone-weary. It would've been okay if 
he'd slept through once he got home last night, but after the dogs had set to 
baying long before dawn, he'd been unable to get back to sleep. Just sort of lay 
there, trying to figure out what might have spooked them.
Probably just some critter, he'd told himself over and over again. A possum, 
maybe, or a 'coon. Except he'd known right away it wasn't a critter. The hounds 
had a different sound to them when they were on the scent of something they 
wanted to hunt. And this morning, when they jerked him awake with their first 
howl, he'd recognized it right away.
They were warning him.
That was why he'd lit the lantern and gone to the door.
He hadn't seen anybody.
Hadn't even heard anything.
But he'd still known someone was out there.
Out there, watching his cabin.
As he'd stood in the doorway, peering out into the darkness, trying to catch a 
glimpse of whoever was hiding in the night, he heard an echo of his ma's voice 
whispering to him when he was just a boy: "You can feel him, child. When he's 
around, you can feel him. And you gotta be careful, real careful. 'Cause he's 
stronger'n you, child. Never forget that. He's stronger." So even after the dogs 
finally quieted, Jake had stayed awake, the lantern turned low, waiting for the 
dawn to come. When the eastern sky began to brighten, he didn't go to bed, but 
instead set about his usual chores. He tidied up the cabin and fed the dogs. 
Checked the traps he'd baited the day before, then spent the hour when the 
thunderstorm tore through skinning and cleaning the three rabbits that were all 
the traps had produced.
Finally, after frying up some of the rabbit meat to tide him over till supper, 
he'd headed out in the rowboat, telling himself he was going fishing, but 
knowing he'd probably spend most of the afternoon just dozing in the sun. But he 
hadn't really dozed, because even in the daylight his ma's words kept rolling 
around in his head like the last few beans in a coffee can.
"When he's around, you can feel him."
Who'd she been talking about? When he was a little boy, he always figured it 
must have been Mr. Conway. But even back then, he'd never really been sure what 
his ma was talking about, because he never felt much of anything at all when he 
saw his ma's boss. Not until that night.
That last night, back when he was only a boy...
 
Jake woke up to the smell of smoke and the flicker of candlelight, and knew 
before he even saw her what his mama was doing.
Getting ready to work her magic.
That was what she called it—workin' her magic. "But don't you be tryin' it," 
she'd warned him the first time he'd awakened in the middle of the night and 
found her sitting at the little table in the corner of their cabin. "Little boys 
got no business with this kind of magic." She sent him back to bed that night, 
but he stayed awake, peeking at her from beneath the folds of the single thin 
blanket that was all he had to keep him warm, even on the coldest nights.
And ever since, whenever he awakened to find his mama hunched over the scarred 
table, her hair wrapped in the blue bandanna he himself had saved up to buy her 
for Christmas one year, he tried not even to stir in bed, so she wouldn't know 
he was awake. Tonight, though, he slipped out of the bed and went to stand by 
his mama, watching worriedly as she prepared the effigy.
That, he knew, was what it was called.
An effigy.
To him, it looked like nothing more than a doll—and not really a very good 
one—but his mama had explained to him that it wasn't really a doll. "With an 
effigy, you can make things happen to people," she'd told him. Now, as he 
watched her fingers stitch the material around the stuffing, he remembered what 
his teacher had said in school a few days ago.
"Sister says magic's wrong," he said worriedly. "She says if you try to work 
voodoo on people, you'll go to Hell."
His mama looked up from her work, her dark eyes glittering in the light of the 
single candle that illuminated the table. "Sister don't know everything."
Jake stared at the dead frog that lay on the table close by the effigy, its 
belly slit open all the way up to its mouth. "But I don't want you to go to 
Hell," he pressed, his voice quavering.
His mama reached out and laid a gentle hand on his head. "Don't you worry," she 
crooned. "I'm not goin' to Hell." Her eyes flicked toward the doll. "But that 
don't mean others won't. Now, you get on back to bed and go to sleep. You have 
to go to school in the morning."
Jake slid back under the blanket, but a few minutes later, when his mama went 
out into the night, he pulled on his clothes and followed after her.
First she went down to the edge of the lake and squatted down amongst the reeds 
that grew there, hiding the frogs and turtles Jake liked to hunt.
A low sound—exactly like the ones the frogs themselves made—rumbled from her 
throat, and she cast the carcass of the dead creature he'd seen on the kitchen 
table into the murky water. As ripples spread from the spot where she'd thrown 
the frog into the water, she stood up, muttering so softly that Jake couldn't 
make out the words. Then, carrying the effigy doll with her, she walked slowly 
through the night, pausing here and there to whisper a muttered prayer, break a 
twig from a bush, or pick up some object—once a feather, another time a 
pebble—from the path.
"All of them have magic," she'd explained to Jake one afternoon when they came 
across the clean-picked bones of a dead crow, and stooping down, she'd picked up 
the bones—even the beak and the feet—and slipped them into her pocket. "Every 
living thing has magic, and every dead thing, too. You just have to know how to 
use it." Tonight his mama had gathered so many things that Jake was sure she was 
planning to use the most powerful magic she knew.
As he followed her through the darkness, he remembered the words his teacher had 
spoken, meanwhile staring right at him, just like she knew what his mama did 
sometimes. "Christ is the Savior, and only through Christ can we be saved. All 
the rest is evil. All other paths lead only to Hell." As Jake followed his mama 
along the twisting paths, he silently prayed for her to turn around and lead him 
back to their little cabin. But then, after what seemed to him to be a very long 
time, they stepped out of the woods, and Jake knew where they were.
The huge house—the house where his mother worked every day, cleaning the floors 
and doing the laundry and cooking the meals and whatever else she was 
told—loomed before him, and it dawned on him what magic she was practicing 
tonight. As he cowered in the deep shadows by the carriage house, his mother 
stepped out into the light of the rising moon. She paced slowly, her head down, 
as if searching for something. Then, a soft chant welling up from somewhere deep 
inside her, she began circling, pacing around in an ever-tightening spiral until 
at last she was slowly spinning over a single spot.
Her spinning slowed further, then stopped. She lowered herself until she was 
sitting cross-legged on the ground. Her eyes fixing on one of the second-story 
windows, she began removing things from the deep pockets of her dress.
First came the effigy doll, which she lay before her, its head pointing toward 
the great house.
Then a knife, its blade glinting in the moonlight.
Some bones, picked clean of flesh, she laid in a circle around her.
Then came stones, and bits of moss. Some leaves, and a handful of dust.
She spread it all before her, her incantations growing ever louder, until it 
seemed to Jake they might summon up the dead from their very graves.
A light went on inside the house, a light that spilled out of the second-story 
window to catch his mother like a fly in a spider's web. A few minutes later a 
door opened and a man stepped out.
"Eulalie, is that you out there?"
Jake recognized the voice—it was George Conway. The man who owned the house.
The man his mama worked for.
When his mama didn't answer, George Conway left his house and came out into the 
yard. Then he was standing above Jake's mama, and the boy could see the anger in 
the man's face as he studied all the things Eulalie Cumberland had spread around 
her.
"Take your junk and go home, Eulalie," George Conway commanded.
Jake held his breath, waiting for his mama to grab all her things and scuttle 
away. But instead she lifted her face until her eyes fixed on Conway's. Then, 
her right hand outstretched, she pointed to the great house silhouetted against 
the night sky. "Evil," her voice intoned. "Evil everywhere. Evil in your house, 
and evil in you!" She held up the effigy doll then, and shook it in his face. 
"It's in here now. It's all in here." She snatched up the knife, holding it 
close to the doll. "Soon I'm cutting it out. Cutting it all out!"
George Conway glowered down at his mama. "Don't threaten me, Eulalie Cumberland. 
Don't you dare to threaten me."
Jake saw his mama's chest heave as she straightened up to face George Conway's 
rage. "Ain't a threat," she said, and though her voice was barely above a 
whisper, it carried perfectly through the stillness of the night. "I'm promisin' 
you. By the next moonrise, the evil will be gone from this place!" As she went 
back to muttering her incantations, George Conway turned away from her and 
strode toward the carriage house.
He'd been seen! Jake's heart pounded and his eyes searched the darkness for some 
means of escape. But the woods were too far away, and there was no other shelter 
to protect him. A frightened cry rose in his throat, but just as it was about to 
slip from his lips, Conway disappeared through a door into the building against 
which he was huddled.
Safe! He hadn't been seen at all; he was safe.
Still, Jake held his breath; any sound he made would betray him. After what 
seemed an eternity, George Conway reappeared, carrying something in his right 
hand.
As the man started back toward his mama, Jake finally let out his breath and 
took another.
"I'm telling you for the last time, Eulalie," he heard Conway say. "Go home."
But his mama didn't budge, and when George Conway used both his hands to raise 
the object above her head, Jake was certain he was going to smash her with it. 
But instead he tipped it, and water began to flow over his mama's head.
Another second went by, and then the acrid odor hit Jake's nostrils.
Not water.
Gasoline.
"Last chance, Eulalie," Jake heard George Conway say.
Jake's mama peered up at the man who loomed above her. "I ain't afraid of you, 
and I ain't afraid of what you been messin' with." As her incantations began 
again, the flare of a match illuminated the face of George Conway. The man gazed 
down at his mama for another second or two, then stepped back a pace.
With no change in his expression at all, George Conway tossed the match into the 
puddle of gasoline that surrounded Eulalie Cumberland. There was a strange 
whooshing sound as the gasoline exploded into flames, and George Conway stepped 
back two more paces as the first flash of heat struck him.
Jake's eyes widened in horror and his hands clamped over his mouth. He wanted to 
race forward, wanted to jerk his mama out of the fire, wanted to rescue her from 
the flames suddenly dancing around her, but his muscles wouldn't work.
As he stared numbly at the horrifying spectacle before him, he was vaguely aware 
of a hot wetness spreading through the crotch of his jeans. But even as he lost 
control of his bladder, he could do nothing to free himself from the paralysis 
that held him, couldn't even bring himself to tear his eyes away from the fire 
consuming his mother.
Eulalie Cumberland made no sound at all as her clothes caught fire and the 
flames began eating away at her flesh. Nor did she make any effort to save 
herself. But her hands reached out of the flames and closed on two of the 
objects she'd spread around her.
In her left hand she held the effigy doll, suspended from a noose she'd tied 
around its neck.
In her right hand she held the knife.
While Jake and George Conway watched her, she plunged the knife deep into the 
body of the doll, then jerked it downward. As the thin cotton from which she'd 
made the doll ripped open, the entrails of the frog poured forth from its belly.
The flames, higher now, engulfed her head, but still she held the doll high. The 
bloody guts hanging from its belly glimmered in the firelight, and as George 
Conway stared at them, his own eyes widening in terror, Eulalie Cumberland began 
to laugh.
It was an unearthly sound, erupting from her throat in peal after peal, and even 
after she finally pitched forward into the flames, her laughter still seemed to 
hang in the night air.
Jake, transfixed by the horror of watching his mother burn, trembled in the 
darkness as the flames died slowly away.
Even when the fire had finally burned itself out, he couldn't bring himself to 
leave. He watched from the shadows as George Conway disposed of the remains of 
his mama, wrapping them in a thick blanket, then disappearing back into the 
great dark house, carrying his burden with him.
All through the rest of the night, Jake Cumberland stayed by the carriage house.
He tried to tell himself that what he'd seen couldn't have happened, that it had 
to be some kind of terrible nightmare.
Pretty soon he'd wake up and be back home in the cabin, and his mama would be at 
the stove, frying up the grits she always fixed for breakfast.
Only when the sun finally crept over the horizon did Jake finally go home. He 
stayed in the cabin as long as he could, not coming out for three days and three 
nights. And when finally the sister came looking for him and asked him where his 
mother was, he didn't tell her what he'd seen that night.
He didn't tell anyone, ever.
But when he heard that they'd found George Conway the afternoon after his mother 
died, hanging from the magnolia tree behind his house, still clutching the knife 
he'd used to tear his own belly open, Jake heard something.
He heard his mama laughing.
 
He'd known right away why she was laughing. It was because even though Conway 
had killed her, she'd still won. But he'd still never understood what she meant 
when she talked about feeling the evil.
Not until last night when the hounds started up.
For the first time, he'd known exactly what his mama had meant.
He had felt something.
Something evil.
Something outside in the darkness, lurking somewhere just beyond the circle of 
yellow light cast by the lantern.
Usually, he would have turned the dogs loose, but not last night. Something held 
him back, something whispered to him to keep them inside the cabin.
This afternoon, though, when he'd left the cabin to take the little boat out, he 
chained them up outside—couldn't keep them inside all day long. But even as he'd 
tossed his fishing pole, bait, and bucket into the boat and shoved it out onto 
the water, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't put them back in the cabin.
Or maybe even take them along.
In the end he told himself that whatever had been skulking around the cabin last 
night was long gone. And in the bright light of the afternoon sun, he was pretty 
sure he'd just imagined it anyway. Probably just feeling jumpy after his own 
midnight outing. Not that he'd done anything wrong—in fact, he'd been doing that 
whole family a favor. If they had any smarts at all, they'd pack up and move 
themselves right back to wherever they came from. And there sure wasn't any way 
they'd know who it was nailed the cat skin on the back of their carriage house. 
Even if anyone suspected, they couldn't prove it.
No, he'd just been jumpy.
Finally letting himself relax for the first time since he'd opened his mother's 
trunk last night, Jake lay back on the bottom of the boat, holding his fishing 
pole loosely in his right hand, his feet propped up on the bench across the 
middle, his head resting comfortably in the bow. He tipped his straw hat down 
over his face and closed his eyes.
And then the dogs began baying.
Jake jerked bolt upright, recognizing the sound at once. It was his hounds that 
had set to wailing, no question about it—even from a mile, maybe two miles 
away—he could recognize the sound of his dogs. And they were letting out with 
the same howling they'd set up last night—not all excited, like when they caught 
the scent of a 'coon or a rabbit. Just like last night, they sounded mad.
Worried, and mad.
Jake reeled in his line, stowed the pole, and started rowing back toward shore. 
He'd been drifting quite a while, and the cabin looked to be nearly a mile away 
now, though the dogs' baying carried so clearly over the water they sounded like 
they weren't more than a couple hundred yards away.
He'd only pulled a few strokes on the oars when the baying died away. He stopped 
rowing; shipping the oars for a minute while he listened.
Nothing but a fish jumping off to the left, and the whining of a mosquito as it 
zeroed in on his neck. Then, just as he slapped at the mosquito, he heard it.
Jake knew what the sound meant the second he heard it. A high-pitched howl of 
pain, cut off so quickly that Jake knew exactly what had happened.
One of his dogs had died.
The mosquito forgotten, Jake lowered the oars back into the water and began 
pulling hard in a steady rhythm that sent the boat slicing through the water.
Twice he paused, feathering the oars over the lake's rippled surface as he 
listened, but it wasn't until he was within a few yards of the shore that he 
finally heard it.
A single dog—he was almost sure it was Lucky—was whimpering.
The boat slid up onto the beach, and Jake jumped out of the bow, pulling the 
craft out of the water until half of it rested in the hard-packed mud that 
formed the bank. Leaving everything in the boat, he hurried up to the cabin.
At first glance, nothing looked different. But then, when he got around to the 
back, he saw that he'd been right. Lucky was at the end of his chain, whimpering 
as he sniffed the ground around the end of the other chain.
Red was gone.
Jake strode forward and dropped down on one knee. "What happened, Lucky?" he 
asked. "What's been going on around here while I been gone?"
The dog whimpered eagerly, and wriggled under Jake's touch, but then went back 
to sniffing the ground around the end of Red's chain. Frowning, Jake picked up 
the chain and tested the clasp he'd attached to Red's collar.
Nothing wrong with it.
Nor was there any sign of the collar.
"Where is he, Lucky?" he asked. "Where'd he go?"
Snapping the chain off Lucky's collar, Jake stood up. "Find Red," he instructed 
softly. "Show me where he is."
The dog dashed around the corner of the cabin, and a moment later Jake found him 
sniffing and scratching at the door.
Mounting the porch, Jake hesitated. Why would Red be inside the cabin? If 
something had killed him—
Then he remembered. Not something. Someone. An icy chill came over Jake, but he 
crossed his sagging porch and opened the door to his house.
And there was Red.
The dog lay on the table, its belly slit, its entrails spilling over and hanging 
nearly to the floor.
At Jake's feet Lucky whined softly and pressed close.
"Oh, Jesus," Jake whispered. "Oh, Jesus Lord, who did this?" His stomach 
heaving, Jake moved closer, reached out and gently stroked the dog's muzzle, as 
if to comfort it. Then his eyes fell on the dog's right foreleg.
The paw was missing, severed neatly, leaving the leg to end in a bloody stump.
Too late, Jake thought.
It's already too late.


 
 
CHAPTER 19
 
 
Janet glanced fretfully at her watch for what must have been the dozenth time. 
Quarter to six. Fifteen more minutes.
She'd give Jared fifteen more minutes, then—then what?
Call the police? Call the hospital?
"There's nothing to worry about," Ted had assured her an hour ago. "He's almost 
sixteen." Then, reading perfectly the thought that had popped unbidden into her 
mind, he grinned. But it wasn't the kind of ridiculing sneer that had so often 
twisted his lips in the early stages of his binges. This time it was just a 
friendly grin, and when he spoke, his voice held no hint of sarcasm. "Hey, Jan, 
come on. He's not me—he's not out getting drunk somewhere. He's probably just 
hanging out with a buddy or something." He'd put his arms around her then, and 
nuzzled her hair the way he had years ago.
But hadn't for how long? Five years? Ten? So long ago, anyway, that she couldn't 
even remember. But his breath had no trace of alcohol now, and when she felt his 
arms around her and he ruffled her hair, the years fell away and it was as 
familiar as if he'd held her like this yesterday. "Let's not go looking for 
trouble until we know it's out there, okay?"
The tension had drained out of her, and she'd gone back to work, peeling the 
potatoes that were now simmering on the stove while Ted played with Molly, both 
of them sitting on the kitchen floor, pushing Molly's favorite red and yellow 
ball back and forth.
Scout was curled up in the corner by the refrigerator.
Kim was up in her room, struggling with her homework.
Like a normal family, Janet thought. We look like a normal family. But as the 
minutes crept by and Jared didn't come home, her worries had once more started 
to build. Habit. It's just habit, she told herself. I'm so used to worrying 
about Ted that if I don't have to worry about him for even one day, I find 
someone else to worry about. But it hadn't even been one day since Ted came 
home, she reminded herself. Tomorrow, even tonight, it could all change. For all 
she knew, he might have a case of vodka hidden away in the house. And yet, all 
day, as she watched Ted work—and work far harder than he had since they were 
first married—she'd seen the change in him. Even when he didn't know she was 
watching, when she stood far back in one of the upstairs rooms so he couldn't 
possibly see her, he'd kept at it, his torso glistening with sweat, his muscles 
straining with the unaccustomed labor. And when he finally finished in the 
backyard, he hadn't rewarded himself with a beer. Instead, he poured himself a 
glass of the iced tea she'd made before lunch, then taken a shower and played 
with Molly.
Like a normal family.
"If he doesn't get here by six, we'll just go ahead and eat without him," Ted 
said, once again reading her thoughts. He winked at her. "After all, it wouldn't 
be the first time this family has been a member short at the dinner table. And I 
promise," he went on when his words didn't erase the worry from her eyes, "if 
he's not home by seven, I'll go look for him. Okay?" Getting to his feet, he 
began setting the kitchen table, with Molly tagging after him. Again, years of 
habit came into play, and Janet moved to scoop her daughter up before Ted could 
brush her aside. But once again her husband surprised her. "Let her be, hon. 
She's just trying to help."
Ted called Kim down exactly at six, and the four of them—with Molly in her high 
chair—started eating.
At five after six Scout stood up and a low growl rumbled in his throat. All of 
them except Molly stopped eating as the big dog moved toward the kitchen door. 
They heard the front door open then, and close.
"Jared?" Janet called out. "We're in the kitchen! Supper's on the table." She 
got up to serve her son's plate, but when she tried to gently nudge Scout aside 
so she could get to the stove, the big retriever didn't move. Instead, the dog 
stood rigid, his eyes fixed on the kitchen door, his hackles up. And when Jared 
appeared in the doorway, another low growl of warning reverberated in the dog's 
throat. "For heaven's sake, Scout, it's only..." The words died on her lips as 
she saw that Jared wasn't alone. Behind him was the boy she remembered from the 
day of the funeral, when they'd been moving into the house. Mark? No. Luke. That 
was it. Luke. Her eyes shifted back to her son. "You should have called," she 
told him. "If I'd known you were bringing a friend home, I'd have made enough to 
feed him."
"It's okay," Jared replied. "We got some pizza downtown. We're just gonna go up 
to my room and listen to some music, okay?" Without waiting for a reply, he and 
his friend disappeared back through the dining room.
But Scout, instead of following Jared as he always had before, remained on the 
alert until the sound of the two boys' footsteps on the stairs faded away. And 
when the retriever returned to his spot next to the refrigerator, his head 
stayed up.
"See?" Kim said. "I told you Jared was acting weird. Even Scout can tell."
"Don't you think Scout might have been reacting to Jared's friend?" her father 
asked.
Before Kim could reply, a thunder of music rolled through the house—a 
hard-pounding rap whose lyrics, even if they hadn't been muddled by the ceiling 
above the kitchen, were all but drowned out by the pounding rhythm of the 
synthesizer that accompanied them. Molly, who'd been happily playing with her 
food a moment before, wailed, and Janet, reacting to the habits inculcated in 
her over the years, rose from the table, already anticipating her husband's 
anger. "I'll make him turn it down—" she began, but Ted was already on his feet.
"You take care of Molly," he told her. "It's going to be bad enough having me 
tell him to keep it down. If it's you, he'll die of embarrassment."
As Janet lifted Molly out of her high chair to soothe the screaming child, Ted 
headed upstairs. A few seconds later the music was cut short, and shortly 
afterward, Molly's anguished howls settled into quiet sniffling. Then the little 
girl rubbed her eyes with her fists and struggled to get back to her dinner. 
Janet slid her back into the high chair, and Molly scooped a handful of potatoes 
toward her mouth, getting most of them onto her face and bib.
When Ted returned, Janet waited for the music to start up again.
But the silence held.
"Would you mind telling me how you did that?" she asked.
"Simple," Ted replied, dropping back into his chair. "I made a deal."
"A deal," Janet repeated. "What kind of deal?"
Ted grinned at her, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Probably shouldn't tell 
you," he said. "Guy thing. But since you're bound to find out anyway, I might as 
well confess. I gave him one of the rooms in the basement."
Janet stared blankly at her husband, then shook her head. "Sorry, but I'm afraid 
you'll have to explain. I don't get it."
Ted shrugged. "Think about it—Jared's almost sixteen, right? Just the age when 
kids like that kind of music."
"I don't," Kim interjected. But before either of her parents could correct her, 
she quickly modified the statement. "At least I don't like it so loud it hurts 
your ears."
"But your brother obviously does—or at least his friend does, which amounts to 
the same thing. So, since with any luck at all we're going to be having a lot of 
paying guests around here in a few months, I'm moving Jared into the basement. I 
told him he could fix it up any way he wants, as long as he makes it soundproof 
so that no one up here has to listen to whatever he's listening to. He winds up 
with his privacy, and we wind up with one more room to rent and one less 
teenager hogging a bathroom upstairs."
"I don't hog the bathroom," Kim protested. Before her mother could object, she 
changed direction. "What if I wanted a room downstairs?"
Her father looked at her blandly. "Do you?" he asked, his voice betraying 
nothing of what he might be thinking.
Kim thought about the dark cavern downstairs, with the rabbit warren of dusty 
rooms lit only by a few bare lightbulbs. God only knew what might be down there, 
creeping around in the darkness. Unable to hide the shudder that ran over her, 
she shook her head. "No!"
"Didn't think so," her father replied, winking at Janet.
Half an hour later, when Kim had gone back up to her homework and Jared and Luke 
had disappeared into the basement to start making plans for his new room, Janet 
stood at the sink washing dishes.
Washing the dishes, and trying to fathom what had happened that day.
How was it possible that she could have gotten up this morning with the decision 
to end her marriage finally made, and now actually be looking forward to 
settling down to spend the evening with the very same man she'd been intending 
to leave?
Except he wasn't the same man.
Whatever had happened to Ted—whatever truth had finally come to him in the midst 
of his drunkenness—had, indeed, changed him. And the Ted who came home this 
morning wasn't a total stranger—he was the Ted she'd met years ago, before the 
drinking had begun.
He was the Ted she'd always wanted, not the Ted her friends warned her against 
marrying.
Finally, she'd been proved right. Maybe, her mother's voice interjected. Janet 
wanted to reject her mother's silent warning as soon as it came into her head, 
but knew she couldn't.
Ted, after all, had made promises before.
And every time, every single time, he'd broken them.
So why would this time be any different? In the quiet and solitude of the 
kitchen, she admitted to herself that it might not be any different. She would 
just have to wait and see.
But for now, for the first time in years, she felt married again.
For as long as it lasted, she was going to enjoy it.
You sure this is a good idea?" Luke Roberts asked as he scanned the room. 
Perhaps a dozen feet square, its walls were made of thick oaken planks nailed to 
the huge twelve-by-twelve posts that supported the main joists of the house. It 
was lit by a single naked bulb hanging from a wire that had been strung along 
the beams beneath the floor. High up on one wall there were two small windows 
opening into light wells that, though they might brighten the room a little bit 
during the day, wouldn't let anyone inside see out, except for maybe a tiny 
slice of sky. Just the idea of moving into this place was enough to make Luke 
shudder, and if he'd been given the choice between this dungeon and the big room 
on the second floor—which was at least twice this size—he knew which one he'd 
have gone for. In fact, he'd have gone for a room half this size if it had a 
real window you could open up to let some air in.
There was a funny smell in the room, too. It seemed to be coming from the floor, 
which was made out of concrete that was starting to rot, with pits Luke was 
certain must be full of mold and mildew. "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a 
grate in the middle of the floor.
"It's the sump," Jared replied. "If it gets real wet, and water starts 
collecting down here, it all runs in there. Then when that gets too full, a pump 
goes on, and pumps all the water outside."
The room, already close to a complete zero on Luke's list, dropped another 
notch. "You mean you want to sleep in a room that might flood?"
Jared shrugged. "Even if it floods, it's not going to be that bad." Then he 
grinned, his eyes glinting in the bright glare of the bulb that hung from the 
rafters. "And I'd sure rather be down here than upstairs where everyone'll know 
what I'm doing."
"There isn't even a bathroom," Luke said sourly.
"Sure there is," Jared countered. "It's over in the corner, near the stairs."
"So what are you gonna do if you have to take a leak in the middle of the night? 
There's gotta be all kinds of spiders and stuff down here."
"Jeez," Jared groaned. "Haven't you ever heard of a bug bomb? You just set it 
off and close the place up for a few hours."
"Your dad's gonna love that idea," Luke observed.
"It was my dad's idea in the first place," Jared retorted. Then: "You got a 
joint?"
Luke's expression clouded suspiciously. "What if I do?" he asked, his voice 
carefully neutral.
Jared's eyes rolled. "If you do, we can smoke it."
Luke stared at him. "With your folks right upstairs?"
Jared shrugged. "Why not? That's the great thing about being down here—nobody's 
gonna walk by, so they won't even smell it if it leaks under the door a little."
Luke's eyes narrowed. "Bet you wouldn't," he said, with just enough challenge in 
his voice to tell Jared he did, indeed, have a joint.
"I'm gonna go up and get some food and Cokes," Jared said. "Then we'll smoke it, 
and figure out how to fix this place up."
In less than five minutes he was back, bringing not only Cokes and potato chips, 
but the radio from his room as well, along with a couple of candles. Plugging 
the radio into the single socket jury-rigged onto one of the walls the same way 
the light had been hung from the rafters, he turned it on, but kept the volume 
low enough so it wouldn't bring anyone down from upstairs. "So how about it, 
Luke?" he said. "You gonna share the joint?"
Luke frowned. "How'd you know I had one?"
Jared's lips curved into a mysterious smile. "I know all kinds of stuff," he 
said.
Luke reached into his pocket and pulled out a red tin box just like the ones 
that practically everyone Jared knew carried. Opening the lid, Luke carefully 
lifted the paper that cradled the peppermints inside. Underneath were three 
neatly rolled joints. After taking two of them out and placing them on the 
floor, Luke slid the box back into his pocket.
Silently, Luke handed one of the joints to Jared.
Jared struck a match, lit the joint, and sucked the smoke deep into his lungs. 
Holding his breath to keep the fumes in his lungs as long as possible, he passed 
the joint to Luke. "See?" he said after they'd each taken three tokes. "No big 
deal." Both of them sank down onto the floor, leaning against the oak wall.
"Good shit," Luke muttered as he sucked a fourth toke into his lungs.
Jared got up and lit the candle, pulled the string that shut off the glare of 
the naked lightbulb, and settled down against the wall opposite Luke. "Not so 
bad, is it?"
"Can't see anything," Luke groused, temporarily blinded.
But as the joint took effect and his eyes grew accustomed to the glow cast by 
the candle, the whole look of the room seemed to change. The rough surfaces of 
the planks that formed the room's walls softened, and the ceiling seemed to rise 
above them until it seemed there was no roof at all.
"Cool," Luke breathed.
"Shhh," Jared hissed. "Just let your mind go." He picked the second joint off 
the floor, lit it, and passed it to Luke.
The light in the room began to flicker and swell.
So, too, did the texture of the walls. No trace of the planks was left at all. 
Instead, the walls seemed to have turned translucent, with rainbows of color 
rippling through them. Then the walls—like the ceiling a few minutes ago—began 
to recede.
It seemed to Luke that they were in a chamber as huge as a cathedral, with a 
ceiling vaulted so high they could barely make it out. The walls were gold, set 
with stained glass in swirling patterns that made the light appear to move as it 
flooded through from somewhere beyond. In front of Luke something that looked 
like an altar appeared, above which—apparently floating in the air—was a woman.
A woman more beautiful than Luke had ever seen before.
She moved toward him, a silvery robe flowing around her, and as her feet touched 
the floor, she reached out, her fingers stretching toward him.
She knelt, and gently caressed his cheek.
"Touch me," she said in a voice that sounded like the most beautiful music he'd 
ever heard. "Touch me."
Hesitantly at first, Luke reached out to the perfect woman.
Her robe fell away, revealing the perfection of her firm flesh and her golden 
skin.
Luke's fingers touched the woman's flesh, and he trembled.
"I want you, Luke," the woman breathed, "like you want me...."
The vision of the woman blotting everything else from his consciousness, Luke 
Roberts let himself sink into an ecstasy such as he'd never felt, and knew that 
when it was over he would be changed forever.
"Yes," he breathed. "Oh, God, yes..." As Luke surrendered to the pleasures of 
the perfect woman, Jared Conway watched. Watched, and smiled.


 
 
October     


 
 
CHAPTER 20
 
 
Sandy Engstrom eyed Kim Conway anxiously. Over the last few weeks—ever since Kim 
had asked if she could sit at Sandy's favorite table in the St. Ignatius 
cafeteria—the two of them had become best friends. Sandy had been surprised that 
first day, because only the day before Kim had hardly spoken to anybody but her 
brother. Her gorgeous brother, Sandy amended to herself, though she'd been 
careful not to let Kim know that she'd developed a crush on Jared Conway the 
minute she saw him. In fact, the main reason she'd been friendly toward Kim was 
in the hope of meeting Jared. But by the end of that first lunch, she knew she'd 
found someone to replace Melissa Parker, her best friend since kindergarten, 
until Melissa moved to New Orleans just before school started. As for Jared, 
Sandy's crush on her new friend's brother had faded almost as quickly as it had 
come over her. Maybe if he hadn't started hanging out with Luke Roberts...
But he had started hanging out with Luke, and as far as Sandy was concerned, 
anyone who was a friend of Luke's was off her list, if for no other reason than 
the way Luke had dumped Melissa Parker last year. He hadn't even had the guts to 
tell her he was breaking up with her himself. Instead, he'd invited Dawn 
LaFrenier to the homecoming dance, and by the time Melissa found out, it was too 
late to get another date. Sandy hadn't had a date, either, so the two of them 
went to the movies that night, and struck Luke—and all his friends—off their 
list of boys they'd have anything to do with. And just because Melissa was gone, 
Sandy wasn't about to reinstate Luke Roberts to her list of friends.
Fortunately for Kim, the stigma Jared carried because of his new friend didn't 
extend to her. Since that first day almost six weeks ago, the two girls had been 
having lunch together every day, and studying together at Sandy's nearly every 
afternoon. So far, Kim hadn't invited her over to the Conway house, and although 
Sandy was curious about it, she still wasn't sure she actually wanted to set 
foot in it. In fact, she'd even wondered out loud a few times if Kim wasn't 
afraid to live there.
"Why should I be?" Kim had asked. "I mean, it's not like it's haunted or 
something." The look on Sandy's face had given her away, and Kim groaned. "You 
don't believe all those stories about my dad's aunt and uncle, do you?" When 
Sandy reddened, Kim sighed in exasperation. "It's just a house! And it's been 
empty for a long time, but just because Luke Roberts thinks it's haunted doesn't 
mean it is."
The invocation of Luke's name had been enough to keep Sandy from repeating all 
the old rumors, but she wasn't convinced there was nothing to them. Of more 
concern to Sandy, Kim appeared oddly distracted at times. Sandy was convinced 
that there was something Kim wasn't telling her.
"Kim?" she said now. "Are you okay?" They were sitting in the pizza parlor 
around the corner from St. Ignatius, having sneaked away from the cafeteria 
rather than face the nuns' macaroni and cheese one more time. "You look like 
you're worried about something."
In fact, Kim was. Worried about what would happen if the sisters caught them out 
of school. But even more than that, she was worried about Jared. She knew, 
though, how her friend felt about her brother—or anyone else Luke Roberts 
knew—so she shook her head. Besides, even if Sandy might be sympathetic, she 
didn't know exactly what to say. She'd felt more cut off from Jared as the days 
passed until now it seemed she didn't have a brother anymore, let alone a twin.
"I'm fine," she replied, but seeing that Sandy wasn't convinced, she cast around 
in her mind for something that might satisfy her. "Actually, I was sort of 
wondering what excuse you were going to give me when I invited you."
Sandy cocked her head. "Invite me to what?" she asked. "And why would I say no?"
"A sleep-over on Friday," Kim said casually. She waited, then added: "At my 
house." As she'd been sure it would, a shadow of apprehension clouded her 
friend's face. "You're not scared, are you?" Kim asked with exaggerated 
innocence.
"N-No," Sandy answered, a little too fast. "I just—"
"We'll rent horror movies and pretend it's Halloween, even though it'll be two 
nights early. We can..." Her words died on her lips at the look on Sandy's face, 
which was enough to tell Kim who must have come into the pizza parlor. Luke 
Roberts's voice confirmed it.
"Hey," he said, coming up the aisle on one side of their table and sliding onto 
the banquette next to Kim, while Jared crowded in next to Sandy on the other 
side of the table.
"What's going on?" Jared grinned at his sister. "How come you guys didn't invite 
us along when you snuck out?"
Kim saw Sandy's eyes fix coldly on Luke Roberts, and realized, to her horror, 
that she was staring at her brother exactly the same way. She looked at him 
carefully, studying his face. His features—everything about him—looked exactly 
the same as ever. But it just didn't feel the same. All her life she'd felt the 
Twin Thing—that deep link with her brother—which had always let her know that no 
matter what else happened, he was always there.
Now he wasn't.
She just didn't feel him anymore. Kim sighed inwardly. Maybe it was just 
something she had to forget about. Maybe it was just that they were both growing 
up.
She was jerked out of her reverie by ... what?
Something had touched her leg! Then she felt Luke Roberts's thigh pressing 
against hers. She turned and glared at him. "Could you just move over?"
Luke rolled his eyes scornfully, but he pulled away.
"And keep your hands on the table," Kim told him.
"Jeez," Luke groaned. "What is with you?"
Kim gave him a cold smile. "Not you!" she said.
 
Across from Kim, Sandy Engstrom was acutely aware of Jared Conway's presence 
next to her. She'd seen him when he first came in, and when their eyes met, the 
strangest feeling had come over her.
As if he'd looked right inside her.
But not just looked in. It seemed he'd reached into her, actually touched her. 
She'd felt a rush of heat and her skin broke out in goose bumps. And right 
away—even before he'd started toward her—she'd known he would sit next to her.
Now, with his body pressed against hers, the goose bumps were back, and she 
could once again feel that delicious heat.
What if Jared asked her out?
Should she go?
Sandy shivered with excitement as she began to think about the possibilities.
 
I don't believe it! Kim thought as once again Luke Roberts's fingers touched the 
skin on her leg. Giving Luke a hard enough shove that he almost fell off the 
banquette onto the floor, she slid out of the booth. "Let's get out of here," 
she told Sandy. "We've only got ten more minutes, and I have to stop at my 
locker."
"What's the big hurry?" Luke protested. "Come on—we just got here!"
"Maybe you don't care if we get caught, but I do," Kim snapped. "This was a 
stupid thing to do in the first place!" She headed toward the door, refusing 
even to glance back.
Sandy followed her, but at the door, turned to look back at Jared. His eyes 
locked on hers, and once more she had the strange feeling that he was reaching 
right inside her, sending a warmth through her that made her almost tremble with 
pleasure.
Like he's making love to me, she thought. It feels like he's making love to me. 
Doing her best to control her emotions—and praying no one would notice her deep 
blush—Sandy hurried after her friend.
Suddenly, she could hardly wait for the sleep-over at Kim's house.
 
The pizza parlor had emptied out twenty minutes ago, but so far Jared showed no 
sign of being ready to leave. Luke Roberts was starting to get nervous. Very 
nervous. For ten years—ever since he'd started at St. Ignatius, when he was five 
years old—he'd lived in fear of the wrath of the sisters. He'd first learned to 
fear their swift brand of retribution when Sister Katherine rapped his knuckles 
with a ruler for passing a piece of chewing gum back to one of his friends, 
sitting behind him. His hand had bled for the rest of the day, but Sister 
Katherine wouldn't even let him go put a Band-Aid on it. "If Jesus didn't ask 
for Band-Aids on the Cross, I think you can stand a little cut on your knuckles, 
Luke," she'd told him. The rest of the class giggled at the way she talked about 
Jesus on the Cross, but a single look from the nun silenced them, and Luke 
burned with shame when the pain in his knuckles made him cry. If Jesus hadn't 
asked for Band-Aids, he sure couldn't have cried, either. But he'd learned his 
lesson, and never tried to pass another piece of gum.
He'd also learned not to talk during class, and to stand up next to his desk 
when he answered a question.
And he'd learned not to be late.
He made that mistake in sixth grade, when Sister Michael was his teacher. Sister 
Mike—the only nun who let the kids shorten her name—had made him stay after 
school and write on the blackboard.
I waste my time when I'm late.
I waste the class's time when I'm late.
I waste Sister Michael's time when I'm late.
He'd written the three sentences a hundred times, and when he was done, he vowed 
never to be late to class again.
And he hadn't, until today. Now he glanced at the clock, trying not to let Jared 
Conway see him doing it. But Jared seemed almost as good as the sisters at 
knowing what he was doing.
"What's the matter?" he asked now. "Afraid Sister Clarence is going to make you 
stay after school?"
"No," Luke replied, knowing he'd spoken a little too fast.
Jared's eyes clamped mockingly onto his own. "'I waste my time when I'm late. I 
waste the class's time when I'm late. I waste Sister Michael's time when I'm 
late,'" he parroted, as if reading the words off the blackboard.
Or out of his own mind, Luke thought.
How? How'd he know? He thought back over the last few weeks, when he'd been 
spending almost all his time with Jared Conway. Had he told Jared about that 
afternoon when he was in Sister Mike's class?
He must have.
But he hadn't—he was almost sure of it!
How had Jared known?
"I can read your mind," he told Luke the day after they'd smoked the joints in 
Jared's basement room, when Luke had the weird hallucinations.
Hallucinations that were still so vivid, even weeks later, that he could hardly 
believe they'd been hallucinations at all. Just last night, before he went to 
sleep, he'd even imagined he felt the touch of the woman who appeared that 
night, stroking his cheek and letting her fingers trail down over his neck and 
chest, caressing his stomach, then reaching lower and lower until—
"Maybe you better go into the men's room," Jared drawled, slouching back in the 
booth and leering suggestively at Luke.
Luke felt his face burn, and shoved the memory out of his mind. Then he looked 
at the clock again. Sister Clarence is gonna kill us, he thought. This time 
she's really gonna kill us.
Jared grinned at him, and winked. "Well, we wouldn't want Sister to kill us, 
would we?" he said. Laughing, he slipped out of the booth and headed for the 
door.
As Luke followed, he found himself wondering again if it was really possible 
that Jared could somehow read his mind.
 
Sister Clarence stopped speaking as the door to her classroom opened and the two 
boys walked in, led by Jared Conway. A cold knot of anger formed inside her as 
she gazed at her newest student, and—not for the first time—immediately begged 
her savior for forgiveness for her failings. I know I should love all the 
children, she silently prayed, but I cannot love Jared Conway.
She'd thought about it many times over the past six weeks. Late at night, when 
she was alone in her tiny cell on the third floor of the convent next door, she 
occasionally blamed herself for the change in the boy. Perhaps she'd been too 
hard on him that first day, when he passed the note to his sister, but she'd 
learned years ago that when children arrived at St. Ignatius from public school, 
it was never too early to begin challenging the laxity of their habits. That 
nothing was demanded of the children was the worst failure of the public 
schools. Not that their parents were much better than the teachers, for the most 
part. But at St. Ignatius, lack of discipline—mental, physical, or moral—was 
simply not tolerated, so when she'd caught the Conway twins misbehaving on their 
very first morning, she hadn't hesitated to discipline them. And Kimberley had 
certainly responded well. The girl settled right into the routine of the school, 
and immediately made friends with exactly the right sort of girl—Sandy Engstrom 
was one of Sister Clarence's favorites.
But the boy was another story entirely. On the surface, Jared seemed unchanged. 
He was still the handsome boy who had walked into her classroom with his sister, 
a friendly smile on his lips, a strand of his dark curly hair falling over his 
forehead.
But something about him had certainly changed. It wasn't something Sister 
Clarence could quite put her finger on—and her inability to identify the 
difference troubled her. She found herself dreading his arrival in her 
classroom, and upbraided herself for it, but despite her efforts to exorcise the 
demon of anger, it still resided within her. In fact, it was growing stronger 
every day, and as she saw the effect that Jared was starting to have on Luke 
Roberts, the demon's strength increased. Now, as her class fell silent waiting 
to see how she would deal with Jared Conway, she struggled with the demon.
She wished to be fair.
She wished to be just.
He knows what I'm thinking. He knows, and even though it doesn't show in his 
face, he's laughing at me! The demon anger raged inside her, but she held it 
firmly in control. "Don't bother to sit, Jared," she said as he moved toward his 
seat. He stopped as her words struck him, but showed no sign of feeling the 
sting she'd injected into them. "Or you, either," she added as Luke Roberts 
slouched toward his desk. Though her words were directed at both the boys, her 
eyes remained on Jared Conway, held by his gaze like—
Like a mouse staring into the eyes of a coiled cobra.
For the first time in all her years of teaching, Sister Clarence had to struggle 
to keep her voice steady. "Both of you will report to Father Bernard's office at 
once." She waited, and for one terrible moment had the feeling that Jared Conway 
was somehow taking her measure. That he was thinking of defying her. Then he 
turned away and led his friend out of her classroom. But before he released her 
from the grip of his gaze, Sister Clarence saw the tiniest hint of a smile 
playing around the corners of his mouth.
The cold knot of anger within her congealed into hatred.
Hatred, and something else.
Something she'd never felt before, at least not in the presence of one of her 
students.
She felt fear.
For some reason she couldn't quite fathom, Sister Clarence realized she was 
dreadfully afraid of Jared Conway.


 
 
CHAPTER 21
 
 
Janet climbed down off the ladder and stepped back to survey her work. When it 
was finished, the mural would cover most of one wall of the dining room. When 
she first told Ted her idea of doing the trompe l'oeil, making the long dining 
room wall opposite the French doors appear to open out onto another, far more 
formal garden from a time long past, she confessed that she'd almost given up on 
it before she even started. And it hadn't been simply the vastness of the wall 
that deterred her. "It's a whole different technique," she'd explained. "You 
have to know everything about perspective, and lighting, and—"
"And mostly, you have to have the ability to put what you see on the canvas," 
Ted had interrupted. They'd been in her studio, where she'd shown him the first 
sketch she made of the imaginary garden from the past. "I might not know much 
about art," he'd gone on, "but even just in black and white I feel as if I could 
walk right into that garden."
She eyed the image on the canvas as objectively as she could, and knew he was 
right—it was good. But still, the task of expanding it to fill the dining room 
wall seemed all but impossible. What if she couldn't do it?
"The worst that can happen is that you make a mess, and we paint it over. What 
have you got to lose?"
"Time," she'd reminded him. Just that morning, she'd tried to make a list of 
everything that needed to be done in the house, but gave up when the job began 
to look so staggeringly huge that she didn't see how they could ever succeed. 
But Ted had had an answer for that, too.
"Time is the one thing we're not lacking. Don't forget—there isn't any deadline 
for opening the hotel. I'd love to be ready by spring, but if it doesn't happen, 
it's not going to kill us. All the trust says is that I have to be living here. 
It's my idea to turn it into a business. And there's plenty of money in the 
accounts to hire people if I need to. So why not give the mural a try?"
He'd taken her hand—something he hadn't done in years—and led her through the 
house to the cavernous dining room. He had stripped the walls of their peeling 
wallpaper only the day before. "Maybe it's just the way you did the drawing, but 
I keep seeing a night scene." His eyes left the wall and scanned the vast, empty 
room. "And I keep seeing this room done in white—with fresh flowers 
everywhere—on the tables, on the sideboards, everywhere. I want to make it 
really romantic, with lots of candles, and tables for two—maybe a few for four, 
but mostly deuces." His eyes shifted back to the huge blank wall. "And when 
people look at that wall, they'll see what it must have been like here a century 
ago, with all those perfect formal gardens no one can afford to keep up anymore. 
Maybe with a reflecting pool, and moonlight..." He stopped, and looked worried. 
"Am I biting off more than you can chew?"
Janet shook her head. "If I could do it right, and it were lit right, it could 
be gorgeous at night. But what about breakfast and lunch?"
"We build a breakfast room," Ted had told her, and for the next hour he led her 
from room to room, describing the visions in his head. As she listened, Janet, 
too, began to see the elegant little hotel he wanted to build.
"I don't know if I can do it," he admitted when they were back in the dining 
room. "But I figure I'll take it one step at a time, and when I come to 
something I can't do, I'll find someone to help me out. So how about it? What's 
wrong with you trying to do something wonderful with that wall?"
She started the next day, elaborating on that first sketch she'd made. She 
worked through the morning, and Ted stopped by now and then to look over her 
shoulder at the drawings. But he never said anything unless she asked him what 
he thought. By the end of the morning, she'd finished a drawing that he assured 
her was a perfect depiction of exactly what he'd had in mind.
And Janet, after studying the drawing as objectively as she possibly could, 
decided that whether or not Ted was simply humoring her, the drawing was good. 
Right after lunch, she set to work expanding it onto the huge expanse of the 
dining room wall.
Within a couple of days—after she'd transformed the wainscoting into a 
faux-marble balustrade—she realized that Ted was right. She could do it. Slowly, 
the image took form, and as she worked, new ideas came to her. The painting 
seemed to take on a life of its own.
Now, even though the mural was still far from complete, the illusion was 
starting to emerge. She moved from the base of the ladder to the double doors 
opening from the entry hall, and was trying to gauge the mural's overall effect 
when she heard Ted come up from the basement, where he'd been working most of 
the day on the plumbing. For a moment she felt all the automatic responses that 
had become almost instinctual in her over the years:
The flush of apprehension as she waited to see how much he'd had to drink.
The reflexive shrinking away from the alcohol on his breath, and the roughness 
of his touch.
The measuring of the anger he always carried with him, which increased in 
proportion to the number of drinks he'd consumed.
But since that morning six weeks ago when he rid the house of the alcohol he'd 
bought only the day before, all of that had changed. Slowly, Janet had lowered 
her guard. Now, as she felt him behind her, she found herself looking forward to 
his touch rather than dreading it. She snuggled back against his chest, her 
fingers stroking the thick curly hair on his forearms as he slipped his arms 
around her and nuzzled her neck with his lips.
"I must smell like a pig," he growled into her ear.
"You smell wonderful," Janet murmured, her whole body responding to the musky 
odor emanating from his skin.
"Where's Molly?"
"Sound asleep," Janet replied. "I put her down half an hour ago."
Ted's fingers gently caressed her breasts. "How long will she sleep?"
"Maybe an hour." Janet twisted in his arms, and put her own around his neck. 
"Think that'll be long enough?"
"Not by half," Ted whispered. His lips moved from her neck and ear to her mouth, 
and his arms tightened around her. "Want to go upstairs?" he asked when their 
lips parted again.
Janet thought of the paintbrushes she'd left on the tray at the top of the 
ladder.
She thought of the mess in the kitchen that she hadn't cleaned up since lunch.
She thought of the hundred other things that needed to be done.
"I can't think of anything I'd rather do," she said.
He swept her up in his arms and started across the foyer toward the stairs.
"What are you doing?" Janet cried. "Ted, for God's sake, put me down! You'll 
cripple yourself!"
"Quiet, woman!" he commanded. He started up the stairs, and Janet's struggles 
gave way to giggles.
"If you drop me, so help me I'll—"
The front door opened then, and they heard Kirn's voice. "Mom? Dad? What's 
wrong? How come you're carrying Mom?"
"Damn," Ted swore. Janet froze, waiting for the explosion. But when he spoke 
again, his voice was low enough that only she could hear him. "There goes a 
perfectly good ravaging. But just wait until later, when the children are locked 
in their rooms...." His voice trailed off seductively, then he kissed her and 
lowered her to the stairs. "Nothing's wrong," he told Kim, starting back down to 
the first floor. "How was school?"
Kim's face clouded. "Okay, I guess," she said, her voice giving the lie to her 
words.
"What happened?" Janet asked, also back in the foyer now.
Kim's eyes flicked from her mother to her father, then back to Janet. "Just 
Jared and Luke. They were acting like jerks."
"Anything special, or were they just being adolescent boys?" Ted asked.
Kim's gaze shifted uncertainly back to her father. It had been so long since 
he'd wanted to talk to either her or Jared that she still wasn't used to it. 
"Well, Sandy thought they were being jerks, too."
"Sounds like teenage boy stuff," Ted said.
The clouds in Kim's face turned stormy. "Why do you always defend him?" she 
demanded, glaring at her father. "What's going on around here? It seems like 
anything Jared wants to do is just fine with you, even when he's acting like 
an—"
"Hey, I'm sorry," he said with no trace of anger, holding up his hands as if to 
ward off Kim's attack. "I guess sometimes your old dad can still be a chauvinist 
pig. So what exactly did he do?" Kim hesitated, and Ted thought he knew what she 
was thinking. "Come on," he urged her gently. "I'm not going to bite your head 
off. And I promise I'll listen. Okay?"
Kim, mollified, first told them what had happened at the pizza parlor, then the 
aftermath in Sister Clarence's classroom. "I don't know what's going on with 
him," she finished. "But something's wrong. He's just not like himself. He—"
"He's growing up, honey," Ted told her. "Just like you are. Neither one of you 
is like you used to be. But that's not a bad thing. It's just—"
The phone rang, and he stopped as Janet picked it up. A moment later she mouthed 
Father Bernard at him. The conversation was brief.
"Father Bernard wants to see us," she said as she put the phone down. "Jared 
won't be home for a while."
Ted's brows rose. "What's he doing?"
"Cleaning the church," Janet said. "Father Bernard decided that if they didn't 
see fit to get to class on time, they might as well find out how they would 
enjoy being janitors, since, as he put it, 'that's about all either of them will 
be fit for if they don't straighten up.'"
Ted's eyes flashed with the sudden fury of his drinking days. They cleared 
quickly, but when he spoke, his voice was harsh. "Well," he said, "I suppose 
Father knows best, doesn't he?"
 
Clean the church.
Clean the freakin' church!
What kind of crap was that? Jared wondered, though he was careful to say nothing 
out loud until he and Luke were safely out of the school building. So they'd 
been a few minutes late getting back from lunch. What was the big deal? It 
wasn't like they were going to miss out on learning the secret of life, for 
Christ's sake. So they didn't get to hear Sister Clarence discuss the proper use 
of the subjunctive tense, or whatever the hell she'd been talking about. Who 
cared? But the thing that had pissed Jared off most was that Father Bernard left 
them waiting outside his office all afternoon. It wasn't like he'd been doing 
anything important—Jared was sure that most of the time he'd just been sitting 
there, inside. But they'd had to stand and wait, with everyone else in the 
school staring at them during the breaks.
No one had spoken to them, as if they were afraid they might catch some dread 
disease.
Bunch of kiss-ups, that's all they were, he thought.
Then, when they'd finally been called into Father Bernard's office, the priest 
made them stand at attention, like they were in some kind of military academy or 
something! And he'd even given them the "this hurts me as much as it hurts you" 
line of crap, like he really cared what happened to either one of them.
The way the priest had spoken, Jared assumed they would be suspended, but in the 
end he told them they were going to have to clean the church. "Perhaps if you 
see what it's like to work as a janitor, you might appreciate your classes a bit 
more."
More likely it was free labor that Father Bernard wanted, Jared decided.
"I bet he finds some reason to make a kid clean the church every single week," 
he said when he and Luke left the school. Sometime during the afternoon the 
weather had shifted, and the heavy mugginess in the air made Jared wish he could 
just go home and maybe sprawl out and take a nap. "What do you 'spose he'd do if 
we ditch it?" he asked.
Luke scuffed at the sidewalk, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans. 
"You can do whatever you want. But if I don't show, my mom'll find out, and 
she'll kill me."
Jared eyed the church that loomed across the street. The last time he'd been 
inside was for his aunt Cora's funeral. He remembered thinking it had been kind 
of pretty, with the light coming through the stained-glass windows. But now it 
seemed forbidding, and as he came to the steps, he suddenly didn't want to go 
inside.
But why should I want to? he wondered. Going inside meant spending the next 
three hours scrubbing the floors, polishing the brass railing in front of the 
altar, and cleaning all the statues. But even as he silently ticked off the list 
of chores Father Bernard had assigned them, he knew there was more to his 
reluctance to enter than just that.
As he stared at the high limestone facade of St. Ignatius, a deep anger took 
hold inside him.
"Come on," he growled. "Let's get it over with."
They walked into the vestibule, and Luke automatically dipped his fingers into 
the font of holy water that stood just outside the doors to the sanctuary, and 
genuflected.
Jared reached toward the water himself, then stopped. Why should I? he asked 
himself. I'm not here to pray. I'm here because I'm being punished. "Where do 
they keep the cleaning stuff?" he asked.
"Downstairs," Luke told him. "I know where it is."
He started up the aisle toward the altar, with Jared trailing after him. But 
halfway up the aisle, Jared felt a strange queasiness in his gut, as though he 
were getting the flu. He stopped. Now, he felt a cold sweat break out, his whole 
body feeling clammy, and a shiver passed through him. "Hey, Luke," he said. 
"Where's the bathroom?"
Luke spoke without turning around. "You either have to go next door to the 
parish hall, or use the one downstairs."
"What do you mean, downstairs? Where're we going?"
"Will you just come on?" Luke countered. "Jesus, what's wrong with you?"
"I—I just don't feel so good," Jared replied.
Luke turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Well, you don't 
look like anything's wrong," he said. "You trying to stick me with all the 
work?"
Jared glared at him. "I just need to use the can. No big deal."
As he followed Luke down the aisle, his queasiness getting worse, he prayed that 
he wouldn't puke or have an attack of diarrhea right here in the middle of the 
church. Luke would never let him forget that. Everything inside him was churning 
by the time they got to the sacristy, and when he saw the stairs at the back of 
the small chamber, he hurried down them. At the bottom, there were three storage 
closets and the rest room.
"Start getting the stuff," Jared said. "I'll be out in a minute." Going into the 
rest room, he groped around until he found a light switch, turned it on, then 
closed and locked the door. As his guts continued to churn, he pulled down his 
pants and sat down on the toilet.
A plume of vomit spewed from his mouth, and as he turned to throw up the rest of 
the contents of his stomach into the toilet, the diarrhea struck.
Jared was drenched in a cold sweat and thought he was going to pass out. But a 
moment later the attack began to pass. His vision cleared, the pain in his 
stomach eased, and the chill that had seized his body released its grip. Easing 
himself back onto the toilet, he lowered his head between his knees.
There was a knock at the door, and Luke said, "Hey, Jared—you okay?"
"Yeah," Jared grunted. "I'll be out in a minute."
He sat up straight. The last of the queasiness had faded, and he didn't feel any 
different than he had before the attack had hit him. Using most of the roll of 
toilet paper that hung from the wall of the one stall, he cleaned himself up, 
then pulled up his pants. As he was washing his hands, he looked at himself in 
the mirror, and for a moment he didn't recognize his own face.
His complexion was chalk white, and his eyes were bloodshot and looked as if 
they'd sunk deeper into their sockets.
Dead, he thought. I look dead!
But then the color began to creep back into his face and his eyes cleared.
Still, he didn't look quite right. In some weird way he couldn't describe, he 
looked different.
On the other hand, why wouldn't he? Hadn't he just puked and shit his brains 
out? It was a wonder he could stand up at all!
Turning away from the mirror, he set to work with the paper towels he found on a 
shelf over the sink, cleaning up the mess on the floor. When he was done, he 
looked at himself in the mirror. He was still pale, but he thought he looked 
better.
"Jeez, Jared, what took you so long?" Luke asked when he finally came upstairs 
ten minutes later.
"The runs," Jared said. "Never had anything like that happen before."
"You still trying to get out of this?" Luke asked suspiciously.
Jared glowered at Luke. "Let's just get it done and get out of here, okay?" His 
eyes wandered over the church, and again he felt the sickness building inside 
him. "I think I'm starting to hate this place."
They worked steadily for the next two hours, alternately scrubbing, polishing, 
and dusting until at last there was nothing left to be done.
The brass gleamed; the statues shone.
Luke shook his head. "I never want to see another can of Brasso in my life."
Jared, though, said nothing, for while Luke was surveying their work, he'd been 
staring at something in one of the niches set into the sanctuary's walls. It was 
a shrine to one of the saints, the altar on which the statue stood constructed 
of ornately carved marble. Surrounding the statue were more than a dozen crosses 
of various sizes.
"What's the big deal with that one?" Jared asked, tipping his head toward the 
statue.
Cocking his head, Luke gazed at it. "I don't know. I guess maybe she was 
someone's favorite saint or something."
Jared moved closer to the statue, which now seemed to be looking straight at 
him.
Looking at him, and accusing him of something. "She looks like she thinks she's 
better than the rest of us," he said. His eyes swept over the rest of the 
figures that adorned the church. "They all do."
"So?" Luke countered. "They're saints. They were better than the rest of us. 
Whatcha gonna do about it?"
Jared smirked. "Oh, I've got a couple ideas." Stepping over to the altar on 
which the figure stood, he reached out and broke off one of the crosses.
"Jeez, Jared," Luke breathed. "What are you doing?"
Jared's eyes locked on Luke's. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking one 
of these things. There's so many of them, they'll never miss one. Bet they don't 
even notice it's gone."
"But what are you going to do with it?" Luke asked.
"Just wait," Jared said softly. "You'll see."
 
Monsignor Devlin rose slowly to his feet, his joints aching from the hours he'd 
spent sitting motionless within the confines of the tiny confessional. Although 
it had been years since he'd last heard any confession but Cora Conway's, the 
closeness of the partitioned booth still offered him a peace of spirit he found 
nowhere else. With the shutters to the grille closed against any penitent who 
might wander into the other side of the stall, he often sat the whole afternoon, 
following the wanderings of his mind wherever they led, knowing nothing would 
disturb his peace.
But today his peace had been disturbed. While he'd tried his best to close his 
consciousness to the sound of the two boys cleaning the church, their 
profanities destroyed his contemplation. Momentarily, he'd felt an urge to drive 
them from the sanctuary, but quickly thought better of it—a sanctuary from which 
two such obviously troubled souls could be driven was no sanctuary at all. In 
Monsignor Devlin's mind, the church should be as fully dedicated to the profane 
as to the devout, so he kept his silence, and quietly prayed for the boys' 
salvation.
Once, as he'd been silently repeating his rosary, he'd felt a draft seeping 
through the confessional's grillwork, and glanced up to see one of the boys 
passing his retreat.
Though he'd never seen the boy before, he recognized him at once—he had the 
features of all the Conways, so that even the tiny glimpse of the nephew 
reminded him of the great-uncle.
The great-uncle, and all the Conways who had gone before.
After Jared Conway passed his way, Monsignor Devlin was unable to concentrate on 
his devotions any longer, for no matter how hard he tried to keep his mind on 
his prayers, the words written in the Bible that Cora Conway had entrusted to 
him kept rising up from his memory, chilling his soul. After finishing Loretta 
Villiers Conway's last words, he'd put the Bible aside, feeling he'd somehow 
violated the privacy of the long-dead woman, never intending to open it again. 
Yet today, after glimpsing Cora Conway's great-nephew, he had come to realize 
that Cora must have wanted him to read the words her husband's ancestors had 
written, wanted him to understand something about her family. Why else would she 
have entrusted the family Bible to him?
Leaving the boys alone in the church and returning to the rectory, he climbed 
laboriously to his room on the top floor, opened Cora Conway's Bible, and set to 
work. The entry after Loretta Villiers Conway's was written in a hand so unsure 
it was barely legible. He had to decipher the words one at a time, but after an 
hour he was done. Rubbing his rheumy eyes and stretching against the pain that 
had settled into his back, the old priest reread the laboriously inscribed 
message, the text only slightly easier to decipher this second time. A date, 
almost obliterated by an ink blot, was scrawled at the top of the page....
 
August 22, 1912
Miz Loretta give me this Bible the day she died. I coud not reed or rite then, 
but I lernd some in the yeers sinst becuz this is the famly Bible and my girl 
Francy is part of the famly. It dont matter what Mister Frank says. My girl Lucy 
was part of it to, but she died birthin.
Anyways, that’s what Mister Frank said but I don’t beleeve him. I think maybe he 
kilt her. ifn he did, I hope he dies like Miz Loretta did! Anyway, I did not 
tell him about this like Miz Loretta said I should not. I guess this is just for 
the women folk.
 
BESSIE DELACOURT STARED AT THE WRITING SHE'D PUT IN THE BIBLE FOR SEVERAL LONG 
MINUTES. MAYBE SHE SHOULDN'T HAVE SAID WHAT SHE DID ABOUT MISTER FRANK KILLING 
LUCY THE DAY SHE WAS BORN, BUT IN HER HEART, SHE KNEW IT WAS TRUE. BUT IF MISTER 
FRANK EVER SAW WHAT SHE'D WRITTEN, HE'D PROBABLY KILL HER, AND MAYBE FRANCY, 
TOO.
EVERY YEAR SINCE FRANCY WAS BORN, BESSIE HAD SWORN SHE WOULD TAKE HER LITTLE 
GIRL AND MOVE NORTH, BUT SHE NEVER HAD. SHE DIDN'T KNOW ANYONE OUTSIDE OF ST. 
ALBANS, AND WHEN IT CAME RIGHT DOWN TO IT, SHE WAS EVEN MORE SCARED OF GOING 
THAN SHE WAS OF STAYING. SO ALTHOUGH THE FLAME OF HOPE FOR A BETTER FUTURE 
BURNED LOWER WITH EVERY PASSING YEAR, IT STILL FLICKERED—MAYBE THEY'D LEAVE NEXT 
YEAR, WHEN FRANCY WAS FOURTEEN AND DIDN'T NEED SO MUCH TAKING CARE OF....
FOR NOW, THOUGH, THERE WAS TOO MUCH TO DO TO WASTE TIME ON SOMETHING SO FLEETING 
AS HOPE. WITH MISTER FRANK GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW, THE HOUSE HAD TO BE CLEANED 
AND THE FEAST PREPARED. THE UPSTAIRS WAS ALREADY SWELTERING IN THE AUGUST HEAT, 
AND BESSIE WOULDN'T EVEN LET HERSELF THINK ABOUT WHAT IT WOULD BE LIKE IN THE 
KITCHEN. AND OLD MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR—WHO DIDN'T LOOK ANY OLDER THAN MISTER FRANK, 
EVEN THOUGH HE WAS SEVENTY-EIGHT—HAD ORDERED ALL THE SILVER AND ALL THE CRYSTAL 
TO BE POLISHED FOR THE WEDDING, WHICH MEANT BESSIE AND FRANCY WOULD BE UP ALL 
NIGHT. BUT EVEN BEFORE SHE STARTED ALL THE WORK, THERE WAS ONE THING SHE HAD TO 
DO. CLOSING THE BIBLE—EVERY PAGE OF WHICH SHE'D FINALLY MANAGED TO READ IN THE 
YEARS SINCE MISS LORETTA HAD ENTRUSTED IT TO HER—BESSIE WRAPPED IT IN A TOWEL, 
THEN LISTENED FOR ANY SOUND OUTSIDE THE DOOR OF HER ROOM IN THE ATTIC'S EAVES.
SILENCE.
SHE STOLE OUT INTO THE NARROW CORRIDOR THAT LED TO THE BACK STAIRS, THEN MOVED 
ALONG THE MEZZANINE UNTIL SHE CAME TO THE ROOM IN WHICH MISTER FRANK'S BRIDE WAS 
STAYING. GLANCING AROUND ONCE MORE TO BE CERTAIN SHE WASN'T BEING WATCHED, 
BESSIE OPENED THE DOOR AND SLIPPED INSIDE.
THE ROOM'S OCCUPANT WAS LYING ON A CHAISE NEAR THE OPEN WINDOW, HER EYES CLOSED, 
A BOOK OPEN ON HER BREAST. BESSIE CROSSED THE ROOM AND BENT DOWN. "MISS 
ABIGAIL?" SHE ASKED. "MISS ABIGAIL, ARE YOU AWAKE?"
STARTLED OUT OF THE DOZE THE SOMNOLENT SUMMER AFTERNOON HAD BROUGHT HER, ABIGAIL 
SMITHERS SAT UP TOO QUICKLY AND THE VOLUME OF POETRY SHE'D BEEN READING FELL TO 
THE FLOOR. IN AN INSTANT, BESSIE SNATCHED IT UP AND RETURNED IT TO ITS OWNER.
"CAREFUL," THE MAID CAUTIONED. "BOOKS ARE VALUABLE."
"IT'S ONLY SOME VERSE," ABIGAIL SAID, SMILING AT BESSIE.
BESSIE'S EYES REMAINED SERIOUS. "ALL BOOKS ARE VALUABLE," SHE SAID. "ESPECIALLY 
THIS ONE." SHE UNWRAPPED THE BIBLE AND PLACED IT IN ABIGAIL SMITHERS'S HANDS. "I 
BEEN HOLDING THIS," SHE SAID. "I BEEN HOLDING IT FOR NEAR ON TO FOURTEEN YEARS. 
IT BE YOURS NOW."
HER BROW KNITTING IN PUZZLEMENT, ABIGAIL STARTED TO OPEN THE THICK VOLUME, BUT 
BESSIE LAID HER HAND GENTLY ON THE OTHER WOMAN'S, STAYING IT.
"IT'S FOR LATER," BESSIE SAID SOFTLY. "YOU DON'T WANT TO BE READING IT NOW, NOT 
THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING."
ABIGAIL'S EYES FIXED ON THE SERVANT. "THEN WHEN SHOULD I READ IT?" SHE ASKED.
BESSIE DELACOURT STRAIGHTENED UP. "YOU'LL KNOW," SHE SAID QUIETLY. "YOU'LL KNOW 
WHEN TO READ WHAT'S WRITTEN IN IT, AND YOU'LL KNOW WHEN TO WRITE IN IT YOURSELF. 
BUT IT BELONGS TO THE WOMEN OF THIS FAMILY. IT HOLDS ALL THE SECRETS. THE MEN 
DON'T KNOW ABOUT IT, AND THEY DON'T NEED TO KNOW ABOUT IT!"
AS BESSIE DELACOURT LEFT THE ROOM, ABIGAIL SMITHERS GAZED APPREHENSIVELY AT THE 
BIBLE, HER FINGERS STROKING ITS ALREADY WORN LEATHER. SHOULD SHE OPEN IT?
BUT NO—BESSIE HAD SPECIFICALLY TOLD HER SHE SHOULDN'T READ IT NOW. AND SHE WAS 
CERTAIN SHE KNEW WHY. UNDOUBTEDLY, THE PAGES CHRONICLED ALL THE INEVITABLE 
TRAGEDIES THAT HAD BEFALLEN FRANK'S FAMILY OVER THE YEARS, AS WELL AS THE JOYS 
ALL FAMILIES SHARED, AND THE SERVANT DIDN'T WANT HER TO CLOUD THE HAPPINESS OF 
TOMORROW BY READING THE SAD PARTS TODAY.
CARRYING THE BIBLE TO THE TRUNK SHE'D BROUGHT WITH HER LAST WEEK FROM BATON 
ROUGE, SHE BURIED IT DEEP BENEATH THE LINENS AND LINGERIE THAT WERE HER 
TROUSSEAU.
THE SERVANT WAS PROBABLY RIGHT—SHE WOULD KNOW WHEN TO READ THE ENTRIES IN THE 
BIBLE, BUT IT CERTAINLY WAS NOT TODAY.
OR TOMORROW, EITHER.
 
BESSIE DELACOURT POLISHED THE LAST SMUDGE OFF THE LAST PENDANT OF THE IMMENSE 
CHANDELIER THAT HUNG OVER THE GREAT MAHOGANY TABLE IN THE DINING ROOM. THE CLOCK 
IN THE LIBRARY WAS TOLLING THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHT, AND EVERY MUSCLE IN HER BODY 
PROTESTED AS SHE CLIMBED DOWN OFF THE LADDER.
BONE-WEARY, THAT'S WHAT SHE WAS.
JUST PLAIN BONE-WEARY.
BUT THE WORK WAS DONE—LEASTWAYS THE HARD WORK WAS. SHE AND FRANCY WOULD STILL BE 
UP UNTIL DAWN POLISHING THE SILVER, BUT THEY COULD DO THAT AT THE WORKTABLE IN 
THE KITCHEN, WHERE AT LEAST SHE WOULDN'T HAVE TO STRETCH HER BACK AND TWIST HER 
NECK EVERY WHICHWAY LIKE SHE'D HAD TO DO WHILE STRAINING TO GET A GOOD LOOK AT 
EVERY FACET OF THE CRYSTALS ON THE CHANDELIER.
SHE WAS JUST LEANING OVER TO PICK UP THE BUCKET WITH THE AMMONIA WATER SHE'D 
USED TO CLEAN THE CHANDELIER WHEN SHE HEARD THE VOICE.
"LEAVE IT!"
THE TWO WORDS STUNG BESSIE LIKE THE STING OF A WASP, AND SHE JERKED UPRIGHT, 
STARTLED. FRAMED BY THE DOUBLE DOORS THAT LED TO THE HOUSE'S CENTRAL HALL WAS 
FRANCIS CONWAY.
MISTER FRANK.
FRANCY'S FATHER.
"IT'S TIME," HE SAID AS THE LAST TOLL OF THE HOUR DIED AWAY. "COME WITH ME."
A COLD KNOT OF FEAR FORMED IN BESSIE'S BELLY, AND SHE WANTED MORE THAN ANYTHING 
ELSE IN THE WORLD TO TURN AWAY FROM FRANK CONWAY, TO RUN AWAY FROM THIS HOUSE, 
TO TAKE FRANCY AND FLEE BEFORE IT WAS TOO LATE.
BUT SHE KNEW SHE COULD NOT, BECAUSE THE MOMENT FRANK CONWAY HAD SPOKEN, BESSIE 
HAD LOOKED INTO HIS EYES.
SHE HADN'T MEANT TO.
SHE WISHED SHE HADN'T.
BUT SHE HAD, AND NOW, JUST AS THEY HAD SO MANY TIMES BEFORE, FRANK CONWAY'S BLUE 
EYES HELD HER. IT WAS LIKE THEY COULD JUST REACH OUT AND TAKE HOLD OF HER, 
MAKING HER DO THINGS SHE'D NEVER DO IF IT WAS LEFT UP TO HER.
THINGS SHE COULDN'T EVEN THINK ABOUT, LET ALONE TELL ANYONE ABOUT.
AND NOW, THE NIGHT BEFORE HE WAS GOING TO MARRY THAT NICE MISS ABIGAIL FROM 
BATON ROUGE, HE WANTED TO DO IT AGAIN.
AND SHE KNEW SHE WOULDN'T BE ABLE TO STOP HIM, NOT ANY MORE THAN SHE'D BEEN ABLE 
TO STOP HIM IN ALL THE YEARS THAT HAD GONE BEFORE.
NOW SHE FOLLOWED HIM THROUGH THE DOOR THAT LED TO THE BASEMENT STAIRS.
DOWN THE STAIRS.
THROUGH THE DOOR THAT WAS ALWAYS LOCKED, THAT ONLY MISTER FRANK AND MONSIGNOR 
MELCHIOR COULD OPEN.
INTO THE DARKNESS THAT WAS PIERCED ONLY BY THE LIGHT OF A FEW CANDLES...
BUT EVEN IN THE LIGHT OF THE CANDLES, BESSIE DELACOURT COULD SEE THE COUNTENANCE 
OF MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR GLOWERING AT HER.
AND SEE THE GLINT OF LIGHT THAT REFLECTED FROM THE BLADE OF THE KNIFE HE HELD IN 
HIS HANDS.
INSTINCTIVELY, BESSIE KNEW WHAT WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN TO HER.
THE SAME THING THAT HAD HAPPENED TO LITTLE LUCINDA—HER PRECIOUS LUCY, WHOM SHE'D 
BARELY SEEN BEFORE MISTER FRANK HAD TAKEN HER AWAY.
AS MISTER FRANK PICKED HER UP AND LAID HER ON THE TABLE BEHIND WHICH MONSIGNOR 
MELCHIOR STOOD, BESSIE FELT NO FEAR, FELT NO URGE TO SCREAM OUT.
BUT SHE KNEW, AS SHE WATCHED MONSIGNOR MELCHIOR RAISE THE KNIFE ABOVE HER, THAT 
SHE WOULD NOT RUN AWAY WITH FRANCY NEXT YEAR.
INSTEAD, SHE WOULD GO—THIS VERY MINUTE—TO JOIN LUCY.
AS THE KNIFE SANK INTO HER CHEST AND PIERCED HER HEART, BESSIE DELACOURT FELT A 
GREAT PEACEFULNESS COME OVER HER.
SHE, LIKE MISS LORETTA BEFORE HER, AT LAST WAS FREE OF THE CONWAY FAMILY.
 
Monsignor Devlin once again closed the Bible. Was it possible that Frank Conway 
could have killed his own child, as Bessie Delacourt said? But of course it 
was—a hundred years ago a child born of a servant in St. Albans was less valued 
than a hunting dog.
But even so...
The old priest flipped back, searching for an entry in the Bible that might have 
predated the one made by Loretta Villiers, but found none. Then, as he examined 
the ancient Bible more closely, he saw something: deep in the crevice between 
the two pages, cut so close to the binding as to be all but invisible, was the 
remainder of a page that had been removed from the volume.
Had Cora taken it out before giving him the Bible?
Or had it been someone else, someone who had gone before?
Sighing heavily, Monsignor Devlin put the Bible aside. Later, when his eyes were 
up to it, he would continue reading the rest of the entries made through the 
years by the women who had kept this strange journal of the family they had 
married into. But for now he turned to the histories of his own church—the 
parish of St. Albans—searching for some clue as to who this Monsignor Melchior 
could have been, this man who by the title associated with his name must once 
have been a priest.
A priest who had broken his vows and abandoned his vocation, yet kept his title?
Why?
He gazed dispiritedly at the thick journals filled with the scribblings of all 
the priests who had preceded him in St. Albans. Most of their hands were no more 
legible than that of the semiliterate servant, Bessie Delacourt. If he were 
truly going to find the answer to what might have been written on the pages that 
had been torn from the Conway family Bible, he would need help.
Father MacNeill!
Of course! He would talk to Father MacNeill, whose mind was much younger and 
sharper than his own.
Feeling as if a burden had been lifted from his back, Monsignor Devlin let his 
tired eyes close, and quickly drifted into the quiet of sleep.


 
 
CHAPTER 22
 
 
The phone call from Father Bernard hadn't taken Ellie Roberts entirely by 
surprise. In fact, she'd been expecting it—or at least one very much like it. 
She'd seen it coming ever since Luke started hanging around with Jared Conway. 
Ellie herself, of course, knew all about the Conways, even though she hadn't 
been born until a few years after George Conway hanged himself from the magnolia 
tree behind his house. Even now she could remember the first time she and her 
friends had snuck over to the big house on Pontchartrain Street. She'd only been 
five years old, and she'd stood on the edge of the road—none of them had dared 
set a foot on the property itself—and listened, wide-eyed, as Rudy LaFrenier, 
who was two years older than her, and knew everything—told them the story of 
what had happened here.
"Father Fitzpatrick says they was voodoos," Rudy had said, and even now, thirty 
years later, Ellie could remember the fear the words had instilled in her. 
"Father Fitzpatrick says this whole place is full of voodoo, and anybody who 
even walks on the lawn will go to Hell!"
The story had been enough to keep Ellie and her friends away from the Conway 
house, and even when she was old enough to realize that whatever tale Father 
Fitzpatrick—who had retired when Father Bernard came to St. Albans—might have 
told Rudy LaFrenier probably wasn't entirely true, she'd been unable to shake 
off her fear not only of the house, but of the Conways as well. After all, even 
if there wasn't anything to the voodoo story, George Conway must have been crazy 
to hang himself from the magnolia tree, and everyone knew what had happened to 
his wife when she found him. While Ellie didn't believe in ghosts, there'd 
always been something about the old Conway Victorian. Which was why she'd told 
Luke right off that she didn't want him hanging around with Jared Conway. 
"There's just something about that place," she said. "And the Conways, too. 
Whenever there've been Conways in this town, there's been trouble."
Luke had rolled his eyes scornfully. "It's just a house, Ma," he replied, his 
voice taking on a stubborn note that reminded Ellie of his father. "Besides, I 
like Jared."
For perhaps the millionth time, Ellie wished Luke's father were still alive to 
deal with Luke, but there was nothing to be done about that. Big Luke had been a 
good man, doing a good job as a deputy sheriff, and when his motorcycle skidded 
out from under him that day, Ellie had wondered how she'd ever make it without 
him, let alone raise Little Luke by herself.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Father MacNeill had explained to her, "and 
the Lord will provide for you and young Luke."
And He had. She found a job working in the rectory. It didn't pay much, but it 
was enough. It also meant that Luke could go to St. Ignatius School for free, 
and during the first few years, the Sheriff's Office helped out, too. Ellie 
tried to bring Luke up right, doing her best to be both mother and father to 
him. It hadn't been easy, but she always tried to figure out what Big Luke would 
have told his son, and all in all, she thought, Luke was turning out all right.
Until he started hanging around with Jared Conway.
Father MacNeill suggested she forbid Luke to spend time with Jared, but she knew 
that wouldn't work. Times weren't like they used to be, when whatever your 
parents told you was law, and you didn't even think of disobeying them. 
Nowadays, kids did pretty much what they wanted to do, and even if Father 
MacNeill didn't understand it, she did. After all, even in St. Albans a lot of 
the kids were growing up with only one parent, or even if they had two, both 
parents worked. You just couldn't keep an eye on them as in the past. But it had 
helped that Luke was at St. Ignatius, because at least the sisters didn't put up 
with the kind of nonsense the public school teachers did.
And Luke hadn't caused any problems.
Not until today.
Mortified. That's how she'd felt when Father Bernard called to tell her about 
Luke's misbehavior. Just plain mortified. She'd sat at her desk in the rectory, 
the phone pressed so hard to her ear that it hurt, as if she were trying to keep 
Father Bernard's words from leaking out, so nobody would hear them but herself. 
But of course that wouldn't happen. Not in St. Albans, and certainly not within 
St. Ignatius parish.
What if Luke got expelled from school?
What if she lost her job because of it?
Finally, knowing she had no choice, she'd gone to see Father Mack about it.
When he looked up from the homily he was working on, she could tell he'd already 
talked to Father Bernard. So at least she was saved from the humiliation of 
having to confess Luke's sins herself. Then, when Father MacNeill began talking 
to her, Ellie realized that the situation wasn't as bad as she'd feared.
"Nobody blames Luke," the priest assured her. "We all know him, and know what a 
fine young man he is. But even the finest young men can fall under..." Father 
Mack hesitated, and Ellie could see him searching for exactly the right words. 
"Let's just say all of us sometimes fall under the wrong influences, shall we?" 
He smiled at Ellie, and her fears began to abate. "The problem isn't Luke 
himself." He pursed his lips, and tented his fingers in front of his chest as if 
he were about to begin praying. "It's the Conway boy I worry about."
"I know," Ellie quickly assured him. Father MacNeill had not only offered her a 
job when she was most in need, he'd also become her adviser in everything else 
in her life as well. "I've been worried ever since Luke started hanging around 
with that boy." She shook her head. "I wish they'd just go away. I know it isn't 
charitable of me, but I just wish the entire family would go away."
Father MacNeill's expression eased. "Then perhaps you might want to come to the 
hearing about the hotel Jared's father is planning to open."
Ellie had heard about the plan to turn the old place into a hotel—everybody in 
town had. But it hadn't occurred to her that there might be something she could 
do to prevent it from happening. She'd never paid much attention to politics, 
and Big Luke had always told her it was best to stay out of it. "All you can do 
is get folks mad at you," he'd explained. "So the best thing is just to keep 
your mouth shut, and let other people make the decisions." But now, as Father 
MacNeill spoke, she saw that if she was going to pry her son away from Jared 
Conway, she would have to take a stand.
In the years since her husband had died, she'd done a lot of things she never 
would have thought herself capable of doing.
She could do this, too.
When Luke finally got home from cleaning the church, Ellie was waiting for him. 
She was sitting in Big Luke's chair, which still dominated the living room of 
the little house on Court Street, and which she never sat in unless she had to 
lecture Luke. "I want to talk to you," she said as he started toward his room at 
the back of the house.
"I got homework," Luke countered. "I stayed after school to—"
"I know why you stayed after school," Ellie interrupted. "Father Bernard called 
me. At work," she added, her eyes fixed accusingly on her son. "How could you 
have done that? After everything I've done, after everything I've sacrificed—"
"Jesus Christ, Ma," Luke groaned. "All that happened was that me and Jared were 
a little late getting back from lunch."
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," Ellie said, quickly crossing herself. 
"Your father—"
Luke's eyes flashed with anger. "Aw, come on, Ma. Dad's dead, remember? He's 
been dead since I was a baby! And I bet he swore!"
"He didn't!" Ellie flared. "Never!" Well, at least he didn't swear in front of 
me, she silently compromised. Certainly when Big Luke was working on the car, 
he'd used some words she didn't approve of. But never in front of her. "But 
that's not what I want to talk to you about."
Luke's eyes clouded suspiciously. "So what is it? If it's about being late—"
"It's more than that." Ellie hesitated, then decided to face the issue head on. 
"It's Jared Conway. I don't want you to see him anymore."
"Why?" Luke demanded. "What's wrong with Jared?"
Ellie rose from her dead husband's chair, trying to summon up the words Big Luke 
would have used. "He's a bad influence and I don't approve of him. So you won't 
see him anymore. Is that clear?"
Luke's jaw tightened and his eyes smoldered. "Yeah," he finally said. "That's 
clear. It's bullshit, but it's clear."
"And you will obey me?" Ellie pressed.
Her son eyed her, and for the first time in her life, Ellie found herself 
frightened by the way Luke was looking at her. It was almost as if he was taking 
her measure.
"Maybe I will," Luke said, "and maybe I won't."


 
 
CHAPTER 23
 
 
It was nearly six when the back door opened and Jared entered the kitchen. Janet 
looked up from the salad she was making, wondering what he would say about his 
lateness. Until recently, she wouldn't have wondered about it—Jared would have 
told her. But recently, especially since he'd moved into the basement room, he'd 
been disappearing downstairs as soon as he came home from school, and staying 
there until supper-time. And after supper, unless he went off to meet Luke 
somewhere, he'd vanish back downstairs.
"What's he doing down there?" she'd asked Ted a few days ago.
"It's all right, Janet. Let him have his space," Ted told her. "He's growing up. 
And no matter what the politically correct view might be, boys and girls are 
different. You can't expect Jared to be like you." A mischievous sparkle lit his 
eyes. "Of course, we don't want him to be quite like me, either, do we?"
"Lord, no," Janet replied without thinking, and then old habit had brought up 
her defenses as she waited for him to bristle at what she'd implied. But he only 
smiled at her.
"Every day I thank my lucky stars that you put up with it as long as you did. 
And don't worry—whatever Jared's doing down there, I'm sure he's not drinking. 
Believe me, I've had enough experience, so I'd know. I'd see it in him even 
faster than you'd see it in me if I fell off the wagon."
"But why does he need a lock on his door?" she pressed. "Kim certainly doesn't 
seem to need one."
"Territorialism," Ted had told her. "It's like an animal marking the boundaries 
of its hunting grounds."
Janet sighed. "Well, I guess a lock on the door is better than that." But 
nothing Ted told her helped: a gulf had formed between Jared and the rest of the 
family, and it seemed to be widening every day.
Now, as Jared passed through the kitchen on his way to the butler's pantry and 
the dining room beyond, he didn't even speak to her, not even to say hello, much 
less offer an explanation of why he was so late coming home.
"Jared?" When her son didn't even slow down, she spoke more sharply. "Jared!"
He stopped, but didn't turn around.
"Look at me, please," Janet said, her voice soft, but pitched to let him know 
she wasn't in a mood to put up with any nonsense.
He turned to face her.
"Father Bernard called me this afternoon," she said.
Jared shrugged. "So?"
"'So?" Janet echoed. "Is that all you can say?"
"What do you want me to say?" Jared demanded. "Sister Clarence got pissed off at 
me, and so did Father Bernard, so I spent the afternoon cleaning the church. 
That's my problem, not yours."
Janet's eyes narrowed. "Your problems are my problems. I'm your mother."
Jared's eyes flashed with sudden fury. "Jeez, Mom! I'm not a little kid! I'm 
almost sixteen years old!"
"And until we came here, you've never gotten in trouble at school."
"I'd think you'd be proud of that, instead of climbing all over my back," Jared 
snapped, turning his back to her. "I'm going down to my room."
"Jared!" Janet exclaimed. "When I'm talking to you, I—" Catching sight of Molly, 
whose eyes were wide with worry over the anger in the voices she was hearing, 
Janet scooped the little girl into her arms. "It's all right, sweetheart," she 
crooned. "Mommy's not mad at you, and neither is Jared. Nobody's mad at you."
Taking the little girl by the hand, she led her into the library, which served 
Ted as a temporary office, and turned the little girl over to her father. "How 
about looking after Molly for a few minutes? I have to deal with Jared."
Ted stood up from the desk. "Maybe I should take care of it—" he began, but 
Janet shook her head.
"This is between him and me. Besides, I'm finally going to get a look at his 
room."
"Okay." Ted sighed, lifting Molly into his lap. "But I warn you—teenage boys' 
rooms can get pretty weird."
"Whatever I find, I'm sure I'll be able to cope with it," Janet replied. 
Unwilling to reopen any of the slowly healing wounds in her marriage, she 
resisted the urge to remind him that she'd been dealing with Jared pretty much 
by herself almost since the day he was born. Leaving Molly and Ted in the 
library, she headed for the basement.
She stopped at the top of the stairs, peering down into the shadows rendered 
deeper by the glare of the single naked bulb screwed into a socket in the wall 
halfway down. Why would anyone want to live down here? she wondered as she went 
down the creaking stairs. She tried to imagine what it must be like in the 
middle of the night, and shuddered at the thought of the spiders that must be 
creeping around. She paused at Jared's door, staring at the gleaming brass lock 
that she'd first noticed a few days ago. But at least there was no KEEP OUT 
sign, like the one he'd put on the door to his room when he was six. She reached 
for the doorknob, then changed her mind and knocked softly instead.
A moment later she heard Jared's voice, muffled by the door. "What?"
"May I come in?" she called.
A silence, then: "It's not locked."
Twisting the knob, she pushed the door open, stepped forward, then stopped 
short. Whatever she'd been expecting—and she wasn't sure if she'd been expecting 
anything in particular—it wasn't this.
For a single, utterly disorienting moment, Janet felt as if she'd stepped into a 
void. A wave of vertigo swept over her, and she instinctively put out a hand to 
steady herself. Then, as her eyes began to refocus, her brain to straighten out 
the signals it was receiving, the dizziness passed.
The room was painted black.
Not a glossy black, which might have created some interesting light patterns, 
but a dull, flat black that absorbed practically every ray of light the overhead 
lamp put out. The rafters that had been exposed the first time she'd been down 
here had disappeared: Jared—or, more likely, Ted—had filled the spaces between 
them with sound-deadening insulation, held in place by sheets of plywood painted 
the same flat black as the walls. The bulb that had once been suspended from a 
hanging wire was now screwed into a socket mounted on the ceiling, and it was 
covered by a shade. The shade, though, was nothing more than a red paper 
lantern, which only served to cast a fiery glow over the room. "Is that thing 
safe?" Janet heard herself ask, and immediately wished she could retract the 
words.
Too late.
"It's not gonna burn the house down," Jared said sullenly. "I checked it out 
with Dad."
As if he'd know, Janet thought, and then felt guilty about the disloyal thought. 
In truth, Ted had learned a lot more about reconstruction since they'd moved to 
St. Albans than she would have thought possible. There didn't seem to be a 
single question about wiring, plumbing, heating, or anything else relating to 
the house that he didn't have an answer for. So far, every one of his answers 
had proved to be correct.
Janet's eyes swept the rest of the room. There was a bed in one corner—at least 
most of a bed, for Jared hadn't bothered to put a frame under the box springs 
and mattress he and Luke had dragged down from the second floor. There were a 
couple of other mattresses—apparently rescued from the attic, or some part of 
the huge basement she herself hadn't yet explored—that were half folded up the 
walls to form rudimentary sofas.
There was a large table, and Jared had built what looked like some kind of 
workbench along the wall opposite the windows.
Against another wall stood an armoire that Janet remembered from one of the 
second-floor bedrooms, and a chest of drawers she couldn't recall having seen 
before.
The windows were covered with black paper.
How can he stand it? she wondered. No light, no air, a musty odor. But she 
checked herself, remembering her purpose.
She scanned the room again, searching for something—anything—she could relate 
to, finally fixing on the desk lamp that stood on the table next to Jared's 
backpack, and on a floor lamp next to the bed.
"Well, at least you can still find enough light to read," she said as brightly 
as she could.
Jared, sprawled out on the bed with his arms crossed on his chest, glared at 
her. "I like it, okay?" he said. "And Dad said I could do anything with it I 
wanted to, as long as you couldn't hear my music upstairs."
"But I'm sure he didn't mean—"
"Can you hear anything?" Jared interrupted. "Do I bother you?"
"No, but—"
"Then what's wrong with it?" he demanded.
Other than the fact that I can't see, I can't breathe, and I feel as if the 
walls are closing in around me, I suppose there's nothing wrong with it, Janet 
said to herself. Then she remembered what Ted had told her before she came down. 
"Teenage boys' rooms can get pretty weird." It wasn't as if she hadn't been 
warned. "I guess nothing's wrong with it," she finally replied. She took a 
tentative step toward him. "Truce, okay? I'm just worried about you, that's all. 
It seems like ever since we came here, you've..." She searched for the right 
word, but couldn't find anything better than the one already in her mind. "It 
just seems as though you're different, that's all. And I'm worried about you."
For several seconds Jared said nothing. When he finally looked at her, Janet saw 
the same fury glittering in his eyes as she'd seen upstairs. "Just leave me 
alone," he said. "Okay, Ma? Just leave me alone!"
A painful memory broke into Janet's consciousness. His father, she thought. He 
sounds just like his father! But it was more than the words Jared had spoken, 
which she must have heard a thousand times—ten thousand times—from Ted. It even 
went beyond the dark blaze in his eyes. It was an aura that seemed to have 
gathered around him; the same kind of impenetrable miasma that had surrounded 
Ted when he was drinking, making it impossible for her to reach him. 
Instinctively, she took a step toward Jared, but quickly stopped herself, 
remembering all the rebuffs from Ted over the years.
Was it possible Jared had begun drinking? She tried to reject the thought even 
as it popped into her head, but scanned the room once more, this time searching 
for a bottle or a glass.
Drugs?
She sniffed the air, searching for any sign of the sweet pungency of marijuana. 
All she smelled was the stale, musty odor that permeated the basement. But Jared 
wouldn't take drugs.
Would he?
Certainly she wouldn't have thought so a few weeks ago; in fact, if anyone had 
even suggested the possibility, she would have rejected it out of hand. Jared 
had lived through his father's drinking, and—
—and the children of alcoholics were far more likely to fall victim to the 
disease than those who hadn't grown up with it.
Not Jared, she prayed silently. Oh, God, please don't let it happen to Jared.
She wanted to reach out to her son, to hold him, to tell him that they could 
deal with whatever was going on inside him. But once again she saw the fury 
glowing in his eyes, and the impenetrable mask his face had become. Right now, 
she knew, there was no use trying to talk to him. Right now, he was his father's 
son. "Okay," she said. "I'll call you when supper's ready."
She backed out of the room, closed the door, and started up the stairs. She was 
halfway up when she heard the sound of the lock clicking.
Locking me out, she thought bleakly. Locking me out of his life.
 
Supper that evening turned into an eerie echo of all the suppers the Conways had 
survived when Ted was drinking. Though it was something none of them 
mentioned—as if they'd reached a silent understanding that by not talking about 
it they didn't have to admit it existed—Janet, Jared, and Kim had all felt a 
sense of reprieve, if not relief, when Ted didn't come home for supper, for when 
he did, the tension that hung over the table was often so thick that even one of 
the steak knives wouldn't have cut it. Even Molly had always sensed it, and no 
matter how hard Jared and Kim tried to keep their baby sister distracted, she 
invariably wound up fussing or making enough of a mess that Ted would demand she 
be taken away from the table. Recently, though, Molly's favorite place had 
become the spot just to the right of her father, who seemed to have tapped into 
an apparently inexhaustible well of patience that none of his children had seen 
before, and that Janet herself assumed had dried up years earlier.
But now all the old tension was back, except that instead of hanging like a dark 
curtain between Janet and Ted, the strain had fallen over Kim and Jared. Ever 
since the twins had first begun to talk, the supper table was their favorite 
place to recount the events of their day, each of them finishing the other's 
sentences, each picking up on his or her sibling's thoughts. Now, though, a 
silence hung over them. It wasn't the kind of comfortable lag in the 
conversation that used to occur when both of them seemed to run out of things to 
say at the same moment. Rather, the silence felt like the uneasy quiet of 
nighttime on a battlefield.
Janet felt as if she and Kim were crouched low in a foxhole, listening for 
something that might betray the approach of some enemy that neither of them 
could quite see but both of them knew was there. Now and then they would 
exchange a wary glance, and Janet could see the worry in her daughter's eyes.
Jared had been the last to arrive at the table, and then he'd hardly spoken, 
barely even acknowledging Molly's loud greeting. Instead, he sank into his chair 
and began eating, stolidly moving the food from his plate to his mouth.
Molly, picking up on the mood at the table, quickly began fussing. Then, halfway 
through the meal, she picked up a fistful of mashed potatoes and hurled it at 
her brother.
Janet and Kim both froze, their eyes meeting.
For a split second Jared seemed not to notice the wad of potatoes and gravy 
oozing down his chin, but then he looked up at his baby sister. Molly, pleased 
finally to be capturing her brother's attention, smiled happily and waited to 
see what Jared would do. But as Kim and Janet watched—and Jared's eyes fixed on 
his baby sister—the smile faded from Molly's face, and then she began screaming.
It was a high-pitched wail, the kind of sound a cornered animal might make just 
before a predator leaps upon it and tears it to shreds.
Janet rose from her chair to pick the child up. But before she could get to 
Molly, Ted had boosted the little girl out of the high chair and was cradling 
her against his chest. Molly's arms were coiled around his neck as she clung to 
him, her face buried in his shoulder as her body quivered with frightened sobs.
"There there, sweetheart," Ted crooned. "It's okay, Molly. Daddy's here, and 
nothing's going to hurt you."
As Molly settled down, Janet turned furiously on Jared. "What did you do?" she 
demanded. "What did you do that made her start screaming like that?"
"Me?" Jared shot back. "I didn't do anything! She's the one who threw the food. 
Why don't you get mad at her?" Standing, he wiped the last of the gravy from his 
cheek, crushed his napkin, and hurled it onto the table. As he stalked out of 
the kitchen, Scout, who was curled up on his blanket in the corner, tensed, then 
snarled at Jared.
"Shut up," Jared told the dog as he passed by. "Don't even think about it!"
Scout cowered back as if he'd been struck, his snarl dying away to a whimper.
When Jared was gone, Janet turned to Kim, whose face was ashen, her eyes wide. 
"What was it?" Janet asked. "Did you see what happened?"
"I—I don't know," Kim breathed, her voice shaking. "It was—I don't know. It was 
just the way he looked at Molly." Her eyes met her mother's, and Janet could see 
the fear in them. "Mom, it was awful. It was..." She paused as if trying to find 
the right words, then shook her head helplessly. "He looked like he wanted to 
kill her, Mom." Tears were running down Kim's face now. She slid her chair back 
and fled from the kitchen.
Janet turned to her husband. Ted, still rocking Molly in his arms and crooning 
softly into her ear, seemed not to even notice that his two older children had 
left the room. Suddenly, her worries about Jared's sullen behavior coalesced 
into anger. How could Ted simply ignore the scene Jared had caused? "Do you 
still think everything's just fine with Jared?" she demanded. "Or were you drunk 
for so many years that you don't even know how normal families behave anymore?" 
Regretting her words the moment she spoke them, Janet braced herself against the 
eruption of Ted's temper she expected her words to trigger. But again no trace 
of the old Ted appeared. Instead, he offered her a sympathetic smile, and when 
he spoke, his tone was as soothing as the crooning he'd just used to calm Molly.
"Take it easy, hon. It was just a little squabble."
"Little squabble?" Janet echoed. "You call that a little squabble? Molly was 
scared to death!"
"And Jared was covered with potatoes and gravy," Ted reminded her.
"He wasn't covered at all," Janet objected. "He had a couple of blobs of—"
"All right, 'a couple of blobs,' " Ted agreed. He transferred Molly back into 
the high chair, ignoring the food stains that had spread across his own shirt as 
he'd held the little girl close and dabbed her tears away with a napkin. Then he 
began spooning food into her mouth. "All Jared did was glare at her," he 
reminded Janet. The beginning of a grin played around the corners of his mouth. 
"Consider yourself lucky he didn't sling some peas back at her, or maybe an even 
bigger blob of potatoes. We could have had a major food fight on our hands."
"For God's sake, Ted!" Janet flared. "He terrified Molly! He even terrified 
Scout! And have you seen his room? What is he doing down there? It looks 
like—oh, God, I don't know what it looks like!"
Then Ted's arms were around her and he was cuddling her as gently as he'd held 
his baby daughter moments before. "Hey, take it easy," he said. He tipped her 
face up so she was looking into his eyes. "Nothing that terrible happened. It 
wasn't anything more than a little squabble, and it's over now." His eyes held 
hers, and the fears she felt for Jared began to melt away. "There's nothing 
wrong with Jared," Ted assured her again. "He's just a perfectly normal teenage 
boy. When you think about it, we've been incredibly lucky at just how normal he 
is." His finger stroked her cheek, and she felt a thrill run through her body. 
"When I think about the problems we could have had..." He let his voice trail 
off, and was just bending over to kiss her when there was a loud knocking at the 
back door. "Don't move," Ted whispered. "Just hold my place and I'll be right 
back."
Ted opened the door and saw Luke Roberts standing nervously on the porch. "Is 
Jared here?" the boy asked.
"Down in his room." Ted held the door wide open so Luke could come in. The boy 
hurried through the kitchen, barely nodding to Janet, and disappeared through 
the butler's pantry, toward the stairs to the basement. As soon as he was gone, 
Ted's arms were once more around his wife. "Told you I'd be right back," he 
murmured.
Janet looked worriedly up into his face. "After the trouble they got into at 
school, don't you think we ought to send Luke home? At least tonight?"
Once again Ted's eyes sought out her own and held them. "If we did, Jared would 
be gone in an hour," he told her. "Better to know where they are, don't you 
think?"
"But—" Janet began, but Ted didn't let her finish.
"No buts," he said. "Let's just clean up the kitchen, and put Molly to bed. And 
maybe," he said, putting on a wide smile, "I'll put you to bed, too."
As she and Ted set to work, all the worries—the fears—Janet had felt a few 
minutes earlier drained from her. By the time she and Ted went upstairs half an 
hour later, all she was thinking about was the way Ted had looked at her, and 
the feeling his touch—just his finger, stroking her cheek—had brought to her 
body.
Everything else was forgotten.


 
 
CHAPTER 24
 
 
Luke Roberts wasn't quite sure what was happening, but on the other hand, he 
didn't really care, either. At least he was out of his house—away from the sound 
of his mother's voice. Did she even know he was gone? Probably not. He'd left 
his door locked, then gone out the window, cutting through the backyards of the 
two houses between theirs and the corner. His mom might have knocked on his 
door, but when he didn't answer, she'd figure he was either asleep or pissed at 
her—which he was—and call Father MacNeill. But at least she wouldn't go around 
and try to look in the window to see if he was there. "You're thirteen now," 
she'd told him on his birthday two years ago. "You're growing up, and Father 
MacNeill says you should have some privacy."
Father MacNeill!
For as long as Luke could remember, his mom had acted as if the priest was his 
real father—in fact, when he was real little, he'd actually thought Father Mack 
was his real dad, until someone told him that the priest wasn't really anyone's 
father at all. Sometimes late at night, Luke still tried to picture what his 
father looked like, but no matter how hard he tried, the only image he could 
conjure was that of Father MacNeill. Which sort of figured, he decided, since 
his mother used to start almost every sentence with "Father says..." So even 
when she'd given him the "gift of privacy," as she'd called it—when all he'd 
really wanted was a dirt bike—she took half the gift away right off the bat by 
adding that "Father says you mustn't abuse the privilege." After taking a deep 
breath, her face turned beet red and she blurted the other thing Father MacNeill 
had said: "And you mustn't use the privilege to abuse yourself, either. That 
would be a mortal sin." He'd considered pretending that he didn't know what she 
was talking about, just to see how she'd explain it, but finally decided not to, 
figuring if she ever walked in and caught him, he could at least claim ignorance 
that he was committing a sin. Of course, then he'd have to go confess to Father 
MacNeill, since she'd be bound to fell him what she caught him doing. But at 
least she'd stuck by her promise not to come into his room unless he said it was 
okay. Father Mack had probably told her she'd go to Hell if she broke the 
promise. So after their fight tonight, he'd just gone out the window to hang out 
with Jared for a while. His mom would probably be on the phone with the priest 
for at least an hour anyway, and by the time he got home, she'd have either gone 
to bed or fallen asleep in front of the TV. Either way, she'd never even know he 
was gone.
When Luke arrived, Jared was taking a bunch of candles out of the big wooden 
cabinet they'd dragged down from the attic last week and setting them up on the 
workbench. Luke flopped down on one of the mattresses, dug into his pants for a 
joint, but only found a roach. He and Jared each took a hit or two while Luke 
told Jared about the fight he'd had with his mom, then they threw the butt 
through the grate that covered the sump in the middle of the floor. After that, 
Jared lit the candles—and some incense to cover the smell of the joint, just in 
case. He turned on some music and started fiddling with the lights, then the 
strobe came on, and Luke began to see strange patterns emerging from the 
blackness of the walls.
"Cool, man," he murmured. "How'd you do that?"
"Do what?" Jared countered.
"That stuff on the walls."
Jared looked at him. "What are you talking about? What stuff?"
Luke frowned, confused. Was Jared putting him on, or was he actually starting to 
see things?
"Tell me what you see," Jared said. Though his voice was barely audible above 
the pounding music, the words resonated in Luke's head with the authority of a 
command. "Tell me what you see," Jared repeated. "And tell me what you want."
Luke concentrated on the strange patterns that seemed to be floating in 
nothingness in front of the black wall. Fluorescent paint, he thought. He 
glanced around for the source of the black light that made the designs seem to 
glow with a luminescence of their own, but Jared had hidden it so well he 
couldn't see it at all.
Cool.
The patterns began moving, their colors—hot pinks and brilliant 
greens—transmuting before his eyes into a rainbow of hues in evershifting 
shapes. The fumes of the incense filled his nostrils, and he sucked them in, 
imagining that it was another joint.
The candles flared brighter, and the floating patterns took on a blinding 
brilliance.
"What's going on, man?" he asked. "Jeez, I can hardly see!"
"Watch," Jared commanded. "Keep watching, and think about what you want. 
Anything you want. Anything at all."
The patterns of color began to pulsate, swelling to fill the entire room with 
swirling light that now seemed to come from everywhere. A golden cross appeared 
above the workbench. It was blurry at first, as if out of focus, and as Luke 
concentrated on it, he realized it was spinning.
Spinning, and upside down.
And there was something on it—some figure he couldn't quite make out. He wished 
the cross were spinning slower so he could see more clearly.
Even as the thought formed in his mind, the spinning began to slow....
 
As he had almost every night since Ted Conway moved his family into the house 
where his mother had died, Jake Cumberland lurked in the protective shadows of 
the carriage house, blending so perfectly into the night that even someone 
passing within a few feet of him would not have sensed his presence.
The magic he had attempted with the cat—the magic he'd learned by watching his 
mama—had failed. The Conways were still here, and every night he could feel 
their evil growing and spreading—spreading like the kudzu that crept across the 
countryside so quickly you hardly knew it was there until one morning you woke 
up and the shrubs were covered with it, and the trees were choked with it, and 
it was too late to do anything about it.
And if the Conways stayed—
But they wouldn't stay, for he was there every night, working his mama's magic.
Now, as he sensed midnight coming on, he spread out his amulets and herbs and 
began muttering the incantations he'd heard from his mama's lips before she'd 
died....
 
Weird, Jared thought. "Where's it all coming from?
It wasn't the grass—there'd only been enough left of the joint for a couple of 
quick hits, and he hadn't sucked it in the way you were supposed to. In fact, he 
didn't really like the drug much, since all it had done the couple of times he 
actually tried it was make him feel like he was going to throw up. He hadn't 
actually done it, but had to spend a couple of hours concentrating on keeping 
peristalsis working in the right direction. Then he'd wondered if the rest of 
his autonomic systems—his breathing, heartbeat, and everything else—was going to 
have to be consciously controlled, too. That put him into a panic for a minute, 
and he actually felt himself stop breathing. Once he'd gotten the panic under 
control, though, everything was okay. But he hadn't been tempted to try it a 
third time.
So if it wasn't the grass, where was it all coming from?
The light.
The sounds.
The voices.
None of it was real—it couldn't be. There wasn't anyplace in the room the light 
could be coming from, since the one bulb hanging from the ceiling wasn't even 
on. And there was no way the candles could be making the room look the way it 
did. Still, when he set up the candles, taking them out of the armoire and 
arranging them on the workbench, he'd kept changing them around. It was almost 
like there'd been something inside his head, some pattern, telling him exactly 
how to set them up, and he kept adjusting them, moving one and then another, 
until he knew—just somehow knew—that they were right. Then he lit them and 
dropped down onto the mattress. And it had all begun.
The music from his boom box had taken on a different sound, and he heard things 
he'd never even imagined before—wailing notes that sounded almost like human 
voices, but that he knew were not. And although the candle flames hadn't 
actually seemed to change at all, weird patterns started to emerge from the 
black walls, and a strange glow that didn't look like any light he'd ever seen 
before began to suffuse the room. It started as nothing more than a speck of 
light hovering in the center of the room—right over the sump, in fact—which had 
slowly grown, swelling until it filled the space, then somehow kept on 
expanding. The walls faded away, and it seemed he was in some kind of cathedral.
That was when he started hearing the voices.
It was just a babble at first, but after a while a couple of them were clear 
enough to recognize.
Kim's voice.
She was calling out to him, but sounded so far away that he could barely hear 
her.
Luke's voice was much closer, and when he concentrated on it, Jared realized he 
could hear it as clearly as if Luke were talking right into his ear. But then, 
as he listened, he realized it wasn't actually Luke's voice he was hearing at 
all.
It was his mind.
Somehow, in some way he didn't understand, he was listening to Luke Roberts's 
thoughts.
Then, as he focused his mind on Luke, he began to see the things Luke was 
seeing.
And feel Luke's emotions.
Luke was angry.
Jared could feel his friend's fury—even see it. It looked like a bubbling pool 
of molten lava, glowing red, churning within the confines of Luke's 
subconscious.
But what was he angry about?
An image flashed into Jared's mind.
A woman.
Luke's mother!
But he'd never met Luke's mother. How did he know it was she he was seeing?
He knew. Somehow, he knew.
And as he saw what Luke was seeing, and felt what Luke was feeling, Luke's anger 
became his own....
 
Jared?" Kim called out, but even to herself, her voice sounded almost inaudible, 
as if coming from a great distance away. She called out again, louder this time, 
"Jared!"
Where was he?
Kim took a tentative step forward, searching for some sign of him, but she could 
barely see in the misty darkness that had closed around her.
Fog!
Of course! That was it. Fog had settled in, muffling her voice, and making it 
hard to see. "Jared," she cried out yet again. "Where are you?"
She listened, but heard nothing. Yet how was that possible? She was certain he'd 
been with her—right next to her—just a moment ago. But where could he have gone?
She shivered, although she didn't feel the least bit cold. What should she do?
Should she just wait for him to come back?
Should she try to find him?
The dark mist grew thicker, and as it swirled closer, wrapping Kim in a gauzy 
miasma, the uneasiness that had come over her when she first realized Jared was 
no longer by her side began to congeal into fear.
"No," she whispered. "I don't want to be alone, Jared. Don't leave me. Please?"
Where could he have gone?
He'd been there just a minute or so ago—she was sure of it. They'd been looking 
around the old house—exploring some of the rooms they'd never been in, and then 
suddenly he'd vanished.
A trick!
That was it—he was just playing a trick on her!
The grip of fear loosened slightly—enough to let Kim start moving again, but as 
soon as she did, she knew she was lost. Alone in a place she did not recognize. 
She'd fallen into some kind of vacuum, and everything she'd ever known seemed to 
have vanished.
Her heart began pounding as fear once more tightened its hold on her.
Move!
She had to move!
If she didn't, she might never escape from this terrible place where she could 
see nothing—hear nothing—feel nothing!
Finally, she forced herself to grope her way through the dark fog, her hands 
stretched out in front of her as she felt her way along.
Something brushed at her fingers, and she jerked them away.
She froze, straining her ears as she struggled to hear a sound that might betray 
the identity of the thing she'd touched, but all she could hear was the pounding 
of her own racing heart.
Then she felt the touch again, only this time it was her legs that the thing 
brushed against.
Stifling a scream, she shrank away from the strange sensation.
Why couldn't she see? Though there wasn't much light, there should have been 
enough for her to see something other than the swirling mist that floated around 
her.
She gasped as the thing that lurked just beyond her vision and just beyond her 
hearing brushed up against her again.
Then, as if from somewhere far in the distance, she heard a throbbing sound 
emerge from the mists, and for a moment she thought it must be the beating of 
her own heart. But as it grew louder, she realized that wherever it was coming 
from, it wasn't within her own body. Yet even as the sound swelled, it sounded 
oddly muffled, as if the mists surrounding her were smothering it as well.
Then something pressed against her legs.
Her heart racing, she instinctively reached down to shove whatever it was away.
A second later her fingers sank into—
Fur! The soft, wonderful feel of Scout's thick golden coat!
It was Scout she'd touched, Scout she'd felt brushing against her. Dropping to 
her knees, she put her arms around the dog and pulled him close, burying her 
face in his coat. "Where's Jared?" she whispered to the dog. "Where is he, 
Scout? Find him for me."
The dog stiffened, and twisted out of her arms, disappearing into the swirling 
mists.
Follow him! She had to follow him, or she'd be lost forever in the suffocating 
gray fog.
"Scout?" she called out. "Scout, where are you?"
She began moving again, forcing her legs to carry her forward, stretching her 
hands out to feel her way. A moment later she felt something, and began 
exploring it with her fingers.
A door!
She found the knob and pulled it open, stumbling through into a corridor.
The mists thinned, and finally she could see.
She wasn't in a corridor at all, but on the broad mezzanine that ringed the 
house's huge entry hall!
The stairs! There they were, off to the right!
And the music was louder now, and coming from somewhere below!
Downstairs. That must be where Scout had gone. Kim hurried to the top of the 
stairs and started down, quickly coming to the landing where they curved 
downward in the broad flight that would take her into the entry hall. She 
started down once again, but the stairs seemed to go on forever, stretching away 
from her in endless repetition. She hurried her pace, racing down the stairs, 
and finally came to the bottom.
The music was thundering in her ears now. It still seemed to be coming from 
everywhere and nowhere; it drew her forward until she stood at the top of the 
stairs leading to the basement.
She stared down into the dark abyss, seeing nothing but blackness.
Blackness, and a single pool of light that seemed to fade away into the distance 
even as she gazed down at it.
But that was where Jared had gone.
She knew it. She could feel it.
And if she wanted to find him, she had to go there, too.
Steeling herself, Kim started down into the darkness.
The music grew louder with each step, until it was throbbing painfully inside 
her head. But she kept going, for she was beginning to feel something else, too.
Jared.
He was here, close by.
She kept going, deeper into the blackness. With each step, the pool of light 
seemed to recede. Yet at the same time, it pulled her toward it like a moth. 
"Jared," she whispered, her voice lost in the throbbing of the music. "Jared, 
where are you?"
At last she came to a door. A closed door. She paused, part of her wanting to go 
through the door, while another part of her wanted to turn away, to flee back up 
the stairs through the darkness, even disappear back into the gray miasma in 
which she'd first found herself. But she reached out and took the knob.
And pushed the door open.
The music swelled, her head feeling as if it would burst, and the brilliant 
light that broke from beyond the door blinded her for a moment. But then her 
vision cleared, and she gazed into the space that opened before her.
The ceiling, which soared to a height that made her dizzy, was supported by huge 
black columns so large their mass threatened to overwhelm her. Indeed, the 
entire chamber seemed to be bearing down on her, and despite the vastness of the 
space, the walls felt as if they were closing in on her. Everywhere, strangely 
etched panels hung, and Kim's eyes, blinking in the brilliant glare, moved 
rapidly from one hanging to another, gazing at the figures depicted in them. 
There was something familiar about them, a flickering of recognition at the 
edges of her consciousness, but each time she focused on one of the great 
gleaming panels, the feeling of recognition retreated. Only when she saw what 
lay at the far end of the vast chamber did she realize what it was: some kind of 
cathedral. But a cathedral unlike any church she had ever entered, for instead 
of offering her peace and comfort, this vast emptiness was filled with a 
terrible despair that seemed to worm its way into the core of her being.
Then, at the far end of the cathedral, above an enormous altar, she saw the 
cross.
It hung upside down, and where the figure of Jesus should have been, Kim saw the 
form of a woman, hanging head downward, her face a visage of agony.
On the altar itself, another figure lay, stretched prone on its back, gazing up 
toward the vaulted ceiling. And in front of the altar, a third figure stood. A 
tall figure, its arms raised, and spread wide in a gesture of supplication.
Or of blessing.
Even though the figure's back was to her, Kim recognized it at once.
Jared!
She took a step toward him, calling out his name.
He turned.
His eyes met hers, and Kim realized it wasn't Jared at all.
The face was Jared's.
The hair.
The eyes.
The smile.
But it wasn't Jared, for from the familiar form of her twin brother radiated an 
aura of something so strong it was almost a physical force.
It was Evil.
An Evil so pure and unadulterated that for a moment Kim could do nothing more 
than stand paralyzed in the face of it. Suddenly she understood that it was the 
source of everything she'd seen and felt and heard.
The suffocating gray mist.
The force that guided her down the stairs and led her into the cathedral.
The throbbing music.
All of it was Evil, pure and simple.
And at the center of it was Jared.
Now it reached out to her. She could feel it creeping closer, stretching 
tentacles toward her. Tentacles that—if she allowed them to touch her at 
all—would never release her from their grip.
She heard her name whispered in the shimmering light: "Kiiim..."
Part of her wanted to answer the siren call, wanted to reach out to the blinding 
light, be absorbed into it.
"Kiiimmmm..."
The whisper came again. The Evil drew closer.
And before her eyes, everything began to change. The light turned gray and cold, 
and now she could see that the great pillars soaring to the ceiling were made of 
bones. The images in the shimmering windows were visages of death. A terrible, 
paralyzing cold gripped Kim. Then, as if of its own volition, her right hand 
came up to close on the tiny golden cross, her aunt's deathbed gift. In an 
instant, the cold released her and she turned, fleeing from the temple of death, 
plunging back into the darkness, stumbling up the stairs.
Her heart pounding, her breath coming in labored gasps, Kim raced through the 
house and started up the great staircase in the entry hall. The gray fog closed 
around her again, wrapping her once more in its asphyxiating bonds, and then she 
could neither see nor hear.
As the breath went out of her, and the gray faded to black, she uttered a 
single, silent scream. Then she gave herself up to the mists and the darkness.
 
She deserves it.
She really deserves it.
Luke Roberts repeated the phrase over and over as he watched the face of the 
woman suspended head down on the inverted cross that floated above the 
shimmering altar.
His mother's face.
He'd watched in fascination as the spinning cross slowed to a stop, but even 
when he finally got a clear look at the face of the woman, he hadn't recognized 
it right away. All he'd seen was the pain in it—the agony. The mouth was open 
but no scream emerged; the eyes were stretched into horrified orbs, but no tears 
ran from beneath the lids. Everything about the face was distorted, but 
slowly—so slowly Luke was barely aware of it—he began to recognize his mother.
As her features came into focus, so also did all the angry memories—memories 
that, until this moment, he hadn't even known existed.
Her fault!
Everything was her fault!
Her fault that they never had any money.
Her fault that no matter what he did, Father MacNeill always found out about it.
It was probably even her fault that his father was dead!
But now she was finally getting what she deserved.
His eyes met hers then, and he felt her silent accusation:
Why are you doing this to me?
All the fury he'd felt that evening when he got home from cleaning the church 
came flooding back to him. What was she doing, getting all over his back? He 
hadn't done anything! So he'd been a couple of minutes late getting back from 
lunch. Big fuckin' deal! Who cared, except her and all those priests? As his 
anger grew, he watched his mother writhe on the inverted cross, watched blood 
begin to ooze from the pores of her face.
Don't you like it? he silently taunted. Well, now you know how I feel when 
you're always picking at me!
His rage—a rage far stronger than he'd ever felt before—continued to grow, until 
he was on his feet, moving toward the altar. Drawing closer to the cross, his 
arm outstretched, he pointed directly at his mother's pain-ridden face with a 
quivering finger.
"Die!" he hissed. Then his voice rose. "Die," he shouted. "God damn you! Just 
die!" His voice cracked, and he dropped to his knees. "Die!" he breathed once 
more. His rage spent, his head dropped forward onto his chest and his eyes 
closed.
Luke's whole body trembled, then stilled, and finally, depleted, he opened his 
eyes again.
The candles Jared had arranged on the workbench were guttering—one of them had 
already gone out.
The visions he'd seen—the hallucinations of the glorious cathedral—had vanished, 
leaving only the black-painted reality of the basement room. Luke's heart was 
hammering, his whole body was covered with a sticky sheen of sweat, and his 
breath came in panting gasps. His legs feeling as if they'd barely support him, 
he moved back to the mattress, letting himself sink into its softness, lying 
back against the wall as his respiration and his pulse slowly returned to 
normal.
He felt both exhausted and exhilarated, and as the minutes crept by, he listened 
to the discordant sounds of the music that still blared from Jared's boom box. 
As the last chords faded away, he finally spoke. "Jeez," he whispered, turning 
to gaze at Jared in the flickering light of the few candles that were still 
burning. "Where'd all that come from?"
"Where'd what come from?" Jared asked.
Luke frowned uncertainly. "D-Didn't you see it?" he stammered. "It was like—like 
some kind of huge church or something. And there was a cross." Haltingly, he 
tried to describe what he'd seen, what he'd felt, but even as he spoke, the 
details began to fade from his consciousness, until all that remained was the 
memory of his exhilaration.
And the anger.
Then he looked at his watch.
One o'clock.
It wasn't possible! He'd only gotten here a little while ago—it couldn't have 
been more than an hour.
Could it?
He looked again—the numbers on the face of his watch hadn't changed. And he felt 
exhausted. His muscles all hurt—even his bones seemed to be aching.
The church! That must be it—he must finally be feeling the effects of the hours 
he and Jared had spent cleaning the church that afternoon. "I—I better get outta 
here," he mumbled, scrambling to his feet. "My mom's gonna kill—" The words died 
on his lips as a flicker of a memory rose in his mind, then vanished so quickly 
he wasn't even certain what it was he'd remembered.
Something about his mom, and—
—and what?
Nothing. Whatever it was, it was gone. "Better get goin'," he muttered.
 
Jared waited until Luke was gone, then relit the candles on the workbench. Every 
detail of what Luke had seen was still etched sharply in his mind, as was every 
word Luke had uttered as he'd stood pointing an accusing finger at his mother's 
image.
Luke himself might not remember what he'd said, but Jared did.
"Die, God damn you! Just die!"
Then he heard another voice—a voice so faint he could barely make out the words 
at all.
"No," Kim's voice whispered. "No, Jared, don't..."
Jared hesitated, the match in his hand flickering above the only unlit candle on 
the workbench.
"Don't," Kim's voice whispered once more, but so faintly now that her words were 
easy to ignore. "Don't do it, Jared. Please don't do it...."
Jared lowered the match to the wick.
The flame shrank, nearly dying away.
But then the wick glowed red, caught fire, and flared up.
The memory of Kim's softly whispered words was lost as the blinding light 
expanded once more to fill the room.
 
"No, Jared! No!"
Kim's own shriek jerked her awake, and she sat bolt upright. A flash of terror 
came over her—a terror such as she'd never felt before. Then, just as quickly, 
it was gone.
A dream! It had been nothing but a dream!
The mists she'd been lost in, the darkness she descended into, the vast 
cathedral she'd seen—all of it had been a dream!
And the figure she'd seen, the evil figure she'd recognized as Jared—nothing but 
a nightmare.
She sat in the darkness. Though the night was warm and unseasonably humid and 
her face was sticky with sweat, she felt chilled as well, almost feverish. She 
got out of bed, pulled on her robe, and went into the bathroom. She flicked on 
the light, turned on the tap, then washed her face with cool water, rinsing the 
salty perspiration away from her skin. Finally she looked at herself in the 
mirror.
She looked exhausted, as if she hadn't slept at all. But the clock on her 
nightstand said it was after one, so she must have been asleep. Her complexion 
looked pasty and her hair hung in lank strings around her face. As she reached 
up to comb it back with her fingers, the mirror reflected a flicker of movement 
from behind her, and she whirled around, scanning the room.
Nothing!
It must have been her imagin—
And then she saw it.
A rat—the biggest rat she'd ever seen—was climbing out of the toilet, its wet 
fur matted down. As Kim screamed, the rat bared its teeth, hissing at her. Then 
another rat climbed out of the bowl, and another.
As Kim screamed in horror she jerked the bathroom door. The latch stuck.
Trapped!
More and more rats erupted from the toilet as Kim's heart raced. They were 
coming toward her, skittering across the floor toward her bare feet—
"NOOOO!" As the terrified shriek rose from her throat, Kim yanked at the door 
one last time and it flew open. Sobbing, she stumbled out into the hall just as 
her parents came through the doorway to their own room at the far end of the 
mezzanine.
"Kim?" her mother called. "Kim, honey, what is it?"
She hurled herself into her mother's arms, shaking, unable to speak. She pointed 
toward the bathroom door, which she'd jerked closed behind her.
Her father started toward the closed door, but she reached out, clutching at 
him. "No," she croaked. "D-Don't. Don't go in there."
Ted looked at her. "Don't go in? Why?"
Kim struggled to speak. She could still see the rats boiling up out of the 
toilet, their teeth—hundreds of needle-sharp fangs—bared, hissing furiously as 
they swarmed toward her. "R-Rats," she finally stammered, her voice quavering, 
her body still trembling at the memory. She began sobbing again. "They were 
coming out of the toilet, Daddy."
Janet's arms tightened around her weeping daughter. "Call someone, Ted," she 
said, her own voice shaking now.
But Ted was moving toward the closed bathroom door again.
"Don't!" Kim wailed as his hand closed on the knob and he started to turn it. 
"Oh, God, Daddy—"
But it was too late. The latch clicked open, and the door swung inward. Gasping, 
Kim's arms tightened around her mother and she shrank away from the terror about 
to emerge from the bathroom.
Silence hung over them as Ted pushed the door wider and stepped inside.
Then he was back and looking worriedly at his older daughter. "Honey, there's 
nothing there," he said softly.
Kim huddled deeper in her mother's arms. "No," she said. "I saw them. I know I 
saw them."
Ted spread his arms helplessly. "Take a look," he said, stepping away from the 
door. When Kim made no move, he came back and took her hand. "It's all right, 
Kim. Just look. I'll be right beside you."
Her heart racing, Kim let go of her mother and let her father lead her toward 
the open door. At the threshold she tried to pull away, the memory of what she'd 
seen still vivid. Yet now, as she peered into the brightly lit room, she heard 
nothing, saw nothing.
Warily, her fingers clutching her father's hand, she edged closer.
Behind the door! That was it—they were hiding behind the door, and as soon as 
she was inside they would swarm over her.
Her father seemed to read her mind. With his free hand he reached out and pushed 
the door open until it struck the wall behind it. "See?" he said, stepping 
inside the room and gently drawing Kim along with him. "Nothing."
She gazed around.
Her father was right.
The water in the toilet was still, and there was no sign of the swarming rats 
she'd seen a few moments ago.
"A dream," her father told her. "It must have been a dream."
Saying nothing, Kim let her parents lead her back to bed, let her mother tuck 
her in as if she were a little girl. But after her mother kissed her good night 
and reached for the light, Kim stopped her. "Leave it on," she whispered. 
"Please leave it on."
Janet hesitated, then smiled reassuringly at her daughter. "All right," she 
said. "But just remember, darling—it was only a dream. Just a terrible dream. 
There's nothing here that can hurt you." She kissed Kim once more, then slipped 
out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her. "She'll be all right," she 
told Ted as they returned to their own room. "She's just leaving the light on 
for a few minutes."
But it wasn't for just a few minutes.
It was for the rest of the night.
And even with the light on, Kim could still see the rats, hissing at her, 
snarling at her, waiting for her to turn off the light so they could sink their 
teeth into her.
Not until dawn, when the rising sun finally washed the images away, did Kim fall 
into a restless sleep.


 
 
CHAPTER 25
 
 
Sandy Engstrom felt her nerve slipping away when she was still a block away from 
the Conway house. All week, ever since Kim had invited her to sleep over 
tonight, all the stories she'd heard while she was growing up had been creeping 
back out of her memory. Nor had it helped that most of the other kids she knew 
thought she was crazy even to think about spending a night in the Conway house. 
Jolene Simmons hadn't even bothered to try and be polite. "You'll be lucky if 
you don't get killed!" she said. "Everyone knows all the Conways are crazy! 
That's why Father Mack's going to make sure they can't open a hotel. In fact, I 
hear he's planning to make them move right out of town!"
"How's he going to do that?" Sandy countered. She put on her bravest face, but 
knew she sounded more anxious than scornful.
"Well, if you didn't spend all your time with that Kim person, you'd know, 
wouldn't you?" Jolene glanced around to see who might be listening, and her 
voice dropped. "There's going to be a meeting on Saturday night, and Father 
Mack's going to make sure they don't give Mr. Conway a permit. He's going to 
make sure everybody from St. Ignatius is there, and everyone's going to tell 
your father he can't give Mr. Conway the permit."
"It's not my dad who decides," Sandy said. "It's the whole council."
Jolene groaned. "Well, whatever. It won't make any difference who decides, 
because everybody in town is going to talk against Mr. Conway. I mean, everybody 
knows all the things that have happened in that house!"
"Nobody knows anything," Sandy protested, but even she could hear the 
uncertainty in her voice. After the conversation with Jolene, she told her 
mother she'd changed her mind about the sleep-over, but her mother shook her 
head.
"If you don't go to Kim's Friday night, everyone will think we believe all that 
dreadful gossip. And that won't be good for your father at the meeting on 
Saturday. He intends to help Ted Conway get his permits."
And that, Sandy knew, was that. The Engstroms would put up a solid front, no 
matter how Sandy might feel. Sandy had almost demanded to know why what she did 
would make any difference, but she already knew. As long as she could remember, 
she'd lived by a single rule: whatever she did reflected on her father; 
therefore it was most important never to embarrass him in public, or contradict 
him. And that meant that no matter how frightened of the Conway house she might 
be, there was no way to cancel the sleep-over.
And, of course, it was Jared's house, too. Sandy had been very, very careful not 
to mention her crush on Jared to anyone, but all through the week, the thought 
of Jared's gorgeous blue eyes sent small, delicious shivers of excitement racing 
through her.
Now, though, as she turned onto Pontchartrain Street, all the fears rushed back. 
It's just because it's almost Halloween, she told herself, but as she glanced 
around at the glowing jack-o'-lanterns that grinned and leered from every porch, 
she felt no reassurance.
Her step slowed. She could see the house at the far end of the street, off by 
itself, looming against the starry sky, casting an enormous shadow in the 
moonlight. She felt a chill. Most of the second floor was dark, and even on the 
first floor, only a few lights were lit. The porch lights were on, one on each 
of the columns that flanked the front door, but even they looked dim, as if the 
house were swallowing up the light itself. Too late to go back home. 
Reluctantly, she stepped onto the broad porch and rang the bell. But as she 
waited for the door to open, she felt eyes—unseen eyes—watching her.
But that was silly! It was nothing more than the jack-o'-lanterns on the porches 
and the stories that had been tumbling through her mind that were spooking her. 
Still, the sense of someone watching remained. Cautiously, she looked around 
into the gathering darkness.
Was that a flicker of movement, over near the carriage house?
Sandy strained her eyes, peering into the shadows that surrounded the building, 
but she could see nothing.
Every shadow seemed to hold some unseen menace. Suddenly, all she wanted was to 
be safely inside the house. Then, just as she reached for the bell again, Kim 
opened the door. Relief flooding over her, Sandy quickly stepped inside.
 
Jake Cumberland waited in the shadows until the door closed behind Sandy 
Engstrom. Then he began his nightly ritual....
 
The first surprise came as Sandy peered into the huge entry hall. A great 
gleaming brass chandelier hung from the soaring ceiling, flooding the space with 
enough light to drive every shadow away. The floor, intricately inlaid with half 
a dozen different kinds of wood, looked as if it had been installed only a few 
days ago, instead of more than a century earlier. The space was freshly painted 
in a bright off-white, and she gazed in wonder at the soaring staircase at the 
far end of the hall.
"It's really beautiful," she said in an awed whisper, looking around in wonder. 
"Is it all like this?"
Kim shook her head. "It's just getting started. Some of the rooms upstairs are 
still really creepy."
The eager light in Sandy's eyes faded. She glanced around uneasily. "Where's 
Jared?" she asked.
"He's not here," Kim said. "Dad gave him enough money so he and Luke could go to 
the movies, and told him not to come home until at least eleven. Want to see the 
living room?" Concealing her disappointment at Jared's banishment to the movies, 
Sandy followed Kim toward the set of doors leading to the living room. As they 
were crossing the entry hall, Kim's parents came down the stairs.
"We'll be with Sandy's folks," Janet said, "and we should be home by ten-thirty. 
Molly's sound asleep, and I don't think she'll wake up. But if she does—"
"I'll give her a bottle of juice," Kim finished. She looked anxiously at her 
father. "You told Jared he can't bring Luke home, didn't you?"
"I told him he couldn't bring Luke home unless we were here," her father told 
her. "But I couldn't very well forbid him to bring his friend home at all, could 
I?"
Kim shrugged in reluctant acquiescence. "I guess."
"Okay. And remember, if you need anything, just call us at Sandy's house."
A minute later they were gone, and with the departure of the adults, Sandy's 
carefully controlled fears threatened to break free of the restraints she'd 
barely managed to put on them. At Kim's next words, her nerves frayed even more.
"Let's go upstairs," her friend said. "I'll show you some of the rooms."
Kim led Sandy up the stairs, but before taking her into any of the ruined rooms 
her father hadn't yet gotten to, she took her to her own room, which looked 
nothing like it had a few weeks earlier. Kim explained how her dad had stripped 
the rotting wallpaper away, repaired the plaster, and put on new paper in a 
bright flowered pattern that matched the bedspread on the huge four-poster bed 
as well as the curtains. A thick carpet covered the floor, and a chandelier, 
glittering with crystal, was suspended from a gilded medallion in the center of 
the ceiling.
"It's really nice." In the bright light of Kim's bedroom, Sandy's fears began to 
ease. "Are all the rooms like this?"
"Dad's going to make them all different," Kim said. She led her friend down the 
hall toward the room two doors down. But ten feet away, Sandy stopped short.
Something—some image she couldn't quite make out—seemed to have flickered in 
front of the door for an instant. She rubbed her arms as a chill came over her.
"I don't want to go in there," she announced.
Kim eyed her curiously, her head cocked. "It's just a room."
Sandy shook her head. "It doesn't feel right," she insisted.
"What do you mean?" Now, as she remembered the terrors she'd experienced a few 
nights before, her own heart began beating faster. But her terrors had been 
caused by nothing more than nightmares. "How does it feel?"
Sandy hesitated. The chill had passed as quickly as it had come. The door looked 
just like all the other doors that opened off the mezzanine. "I—I don't know," 
she stammered. "I just thought—" She stopped, embarrassed. "I'm okay," she said.
Kim opened the door and they stepped into a room lit only by the glow of 
moonlight coming in through the window. Even in the shadowy light, Sandy could 
see that it had once been a nursery. An ancient-looking crib stood near the 
window, and though the wallpaper was faded, she could still make out a pattern 
of teddy bears dancing across the walls. But the room felt strange.
Unlived-in.
She remembered the story she'd heard so many times while she was growing up, of 
the baby that George Conway's wife had given birth to, but who had never been 
found.
And then Sandy knew.
This was the room intended for that baby.
Sandy heard a sound, but it was so faint that for a second she wasn't sure she'd 
heard it at all. "Listen!" she said, her voice low. "What was that?"
"What was what?" Kim asked.
"Shhh!" Sandy hissed. "I heard something! Just listen!"
Both girls were silent, then Sandy heard it again. A baby crying! "There!" she 
exclaimed. "Didn't you hear that?" Kim shook her head. "It was a baby! I heard a 
baby crying!"
"Maybe it was Molly," Kim suggested.
Relief made Sandy's knees go weak. Of course it was Molly! How stupid could she 
get? If she wasn't such a fraidy cat, she would have known right away that it 
had to be Kirn's baby sister crying. She followed Kim into the little room that 
adjoined the master bedroom, where a soft nightlight glowed next to Molly's 
crib. The two girls leaned over the crib and peered down at the sleeping child. 
Sandy started to speak, but Kim held her finger to her lips. "If she wakes up, 
she'll never go back to sleep," she whispered. They tiptoed back out, and Kim 
gently closed the door behind her. "Well, I guess whatever you heard wasn't 
Molly."
A tendril of panic flicked out and tried to grasp Sandy, but this time she 
refused to let herself give in to it. "It probably wasn't anything. Let's go 
down and watch the movies we rented. Then at least I'll really have something to 
be scared about." As they started down the stairs, Sandy glanced once more at 
the closed door to the old nursery. No matter what Kim said, she'd heard 
something.
She'd heard a baby, and the baby had been crying.
And it had been in that room.
Sandy wished she hadn't come over here at all.
 
Janet Conway felt as if she'd somehow slipped into another world. A parallel 
world that looked, sounded, and felt so perfectly familiar that it was hard to 
believe it wasn't the same world in which she'd been living her entire life. In 
the two hours since she and Ted had arrived at the Engstroms' it seemed she'd 
skidded into the Twilight Zone as she listened to Marge's summary of the rumors 
flying through the town over the last few weeks—tales involving the killing of 
babies and the seduction and slaying of a servant girl. It wasn't as if she'd 
never heard the rumors before—in the few weeks since the first time they had 
been to the Engstroms' for dinner, she must have heard every one of them. But 
tonight, hearing all the threads woven together, they took on a surreal quality. 
Janet was barely able to believe people would repeat such things, let alone 
accept them as true.
There had apparently even been whispers of Devil worship.
Devil worship?
In her family?
"Where on earth could such stories be coming from?" she wanted to know, her 
voice shaking with outrage. She searched her mind for something to explain the 
terrible stories, but there was nothing. Nothing any of them had done. There'd 
been the problem with Jared being late getting back from lunch, but the school 
had dealt with that. Then she remembered a moment in the cemetery, at Aunt 
Cora's funeral, and she heard Ted saying, "I just don't hold with religion," 
despite her own silent wish that he would keep his opinion to himself. But he 
hadn't: "Never have. I don't mind my kids going to your school, but don't count 
on any of us showing up for church on Sundays."
Father MacNeill? But could that brief conversation have been enough to make the 
priest try to drive them out of town?
"Might just be," Phil Engstrom mused when she repeated the incident. "Father 
Mack don't take lightly to people not holdin' with his religion. Don't take 
lightly to it at all." His eyes shifted from Janet to Ted, then back to Janet. 
"Anything else happen that day? If we're gonna beat this opposition tomorrow 
night, I better know exactly what we're up agin'."
Janet, about to shake her head, was stopped by another memory rising up like a 
cobra uncoiling. "Jake Cumberland," she said. "He was there, too. He just stood 
outside the fence, glowering at us." There had been something strange, even 
eerie, about the man, and Janet shuddered, recalling his mute, angry stare. Then 
she herself grew angry that their hope for a new life was threatened by 
something so trivial as rumors spread by an angry priest and the antipathy of a 
slightly deranged trapper who apparently held Ted responsible for something that 
might have happened to his mother forty years earlier.
"There has to be something we can do," she said, still searching for a solution 
as the evening came to an end. "Maybe we should sue Father MacNeill, or—"
"We're not going to sue anyone," Ted interrupted.
Janet sighed. "But it just seems so unfair—"
"It is unfair," Ted agreed. "But we'll get through it. We'll just have to go to 
the meeting tomorrow, and convince everyone that even if everything they've 
heard is true, it doesn't have anything to do with us. I'll just have to bring 
them around, that's all."
As they were driving home later, Janet found herself looking at the houses they 
passed. On most of the porches, the jack-o'-lanterns were still flickering, as 
if winking mockingly at her. Hadn't she read somewhere about a movement to ban 
Halloween on the grounds that the celebration might have some connection to 
Satanism? A month or two ago, the notion would have struck her as ludicrous. 
Now, as she looked at the leering faces of the carved pumpkins, she found 
herself wondering how many of the people behind those jack-o'-lanterns had been 
listening to the rumors about Ted's family, believing them, and passing them on.
Hypocrites! she thought bitterly. They're all a bunch of hypocrites.
"Looks so peaceful, you'd never know what's going on, doesn't it?" Ted asked, 
seeming to read her mind.
She reached over and slipped her hand into his. "Do you really think it will all 
blow over?"
"Sure it will." Ted braked the car to a stop. "Maybe when people find out 
tomorrow that nothing terrible happened to Sandy when she spent the night at our 
place, things will start dying down." He grinned. "I mean, wouldn't you think if 
we were such monsters—or even if the house really is haunted—that something 
awful would happen to her?"
"Don't say that," Janet protested, shuddering. "Don't even think it!"
Yet the words were already spoken, hanging in the air. As she put her key in the 
lock of the front door, Janet had a terrible premonition about what she might 
find inside the house.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, Ted right behind her.
The lights in the entry hall were off.
The house was silent.
Then she heard something.
A door, creaking open.
Her pulse quickened, and a chill passed through her.
Then, as the unseen door creaked once more, the quiet of the house was shattered 
by a scream.
"Kim?" Janet shouted, switching on the chandelier and flooding the entry hall 
with light. "KIM!"
There was a silence—a terrifying silence that froze Janet's blood—until she 
heard her daughter's voice.
"In the library!" Kim called out. "We're watching a movie."
From behind her, Janet heard Ted snicker, and turned to glare at him. "Don't you 
tell her," she warned. "Not a single word."
"Please?" Ted begged. "You looked so scared."
"And you weren't?" Janet countered.
Ted hesitated, then nodded. "Well, maybe just a little bit," he agreed. "Come 
on, let's go take a head count and make sure the right number of bodies are 
here."
Together, they went into the library, where the two girls were stretched out on 
the floor watching a movie. On the screen, a masked figure held one of the 
nastiestlooking knives Janet had ever seen, about to plunge it into a terrified 
victim. "How can you watch that?" she asked. "I'd be scared out of my wits."
"It's fun," Kim told her.
"It's creepy," Sandy declared.
Kim rolled her eyes at her friend's nervousness. "It's only a movie. We can shut 
it off anytime we want."
Janet glanced pointedly at the clock. "Well, just make sure it's off by 
midnight, okay?"
Ten minutes later Janet and Ted were in their room. Molly was still sound asleep 
in her crib, and there'd been no sign of Jared all evening. "See? I told you 
there was nothing to worry about," Ted said as he slid into bed. "Now, why don't 
you come join me?"
"Ted! Kim and Sandy are right downstairs!"
"They won't hear a thing," Ted assured her. "Come here."
As Ted wrapped his arms around her and began covering her with kisses, Janet 
felt the tension of the evening finally slipping away.
"It'll be all right," Ted whispered in her ear. "Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll 
make it all right."
Then his mouth covered hers, and she gratefully gave in to the pleasures of 
their bodies.


 
 
CHAPTER 26
 
 
The touch was as gentle on her skin as the caress of a summer breeze, so light 
that at first Sandy was hardly even aware of it. All she knew was that a slight 
thrill had run through her, disappearing so quickly that she wasn't quite sure 
she'd felt it.
Yet something had happened.
Something she wanted more of.
She stretched her body languidly, but didn't open her eyes for fear of losing 
the last faint vestiges of the elusive pleasure.
The touch came again, as soft and soothing as the fur of a kitten, but now she 
could hear something, too.
A strange sound, not quite a voice, but not quite music. The sound reached deep 
within her, resonating inside her.
The touch was stronger now, like gentle fingers against her skin, and once more 
she stretched her body, as if reaching out to the source of the caress.
The sound—the odd not-quite-music—was forming into a whispered voice, drawing 
each syllable of her name into a sigh of longing: "Saann ... deee..."
Then again: "Saann ... deee..."
"Yes," Sandy whispered. "Oh, yes..."
Now, lying in the darkness, the soothing sounds washing over her, she felt soft 
lips touch her own, and the gentle touch grew more bold.
Hands slipped beneath her blouse, and the nipples on her breasts hardened while 
at the same time a great lassitude spread over her.
She wanted nothing more than to lie where she was, surrounded by the protective 
darkness, thrilling to the touch, yet calmed by the soothing sounds.
She shivered with pleasure, straining closer to the touch.
And in the instant she responded to it, it vanished.
Sandy's breath caught, and she felt a terrible sense of disappointment.
Of loss.
"Nooo," she whimpered so softly the word was barely spoken. "Noooo..."
She reached out, searching in the darkness for the source of the touch, silently 
pleading for its return.
And in the darkness she felt something. Her fingers closed on a strong hand, and 
a moment later she felt herself being drawn to her feet.
"Come," a whispered voice instructed. "Come with me...."
Sandy let herself be led through the darkness, afraid to open her eyes lest the 
magical touch and voice prove to be as ephemeral as a dream, vanishing as she 
came wide-awake.
She had no sense of where she might be going, where the pleasure might lead her, 
but it didn't matter. All she wanted was to follow.
Slowly the darkness around her began to change. Her whole being felt suffused 
with a growing light, and the hands that guided her now lay her gently on a 
surface so soft it felt as if it must be nothing more than a cloud. Sighing in 
contentment, Sandy let herself sink into the softness.
The suffusing light brightened into a golden glow swirling with a rainbow of 
colors, and once again she heard the strange sounds—not quite voices, but not 
quite music—pulsing in her head, wrapping her whole body in its throbbing 
rhythms. Then, from somewhere just beneath her consciousness, a voice whispered 
to her.
"Open your eyes, Sandy. Don't just feel me and hear me. See me, too...."
Obeying the voice, Sandy slowly opened her eyes. She was blinded by the golden 
luminescence and flow of color, but then an image began to take form.
A face—the most beautiful face she'd ever seen—loomed a few inches above her 
own. Eyes the color of sapphires gazed into her own; full lips hovered close to 
hers, smiling. The jaw was strong, the chin slightly cleft. The cheekbones and 
forehead were high, and framed by waves of chestnut hair.
It was exactly the face that until now she'd seen only in her fantasies, coming 
to her during the daydreams in which she imagined the man who would someday 
sweep her into his arms and carry her away.
As if in answer to every craving she'd ever felt, the face above her came 
closer. She felt the lips brush her own. She tried to raise her arms, to pull 
herself closer to the object of her dreams, but somehow her limbs refused to 
obey.
She lay helpless in the vision's thrall, craving every touch, moaning softly.
She felt the tip of a tongue prod gently at her lips, and opened her mouth to 
accept it. Then, once again, she felt the caressing fingers stroking her body.
The buttons of her blouse opened; her jeans slid down her hips.
The fingers were everywhere now—hundreds of them—tracing intricate patterns on 
her skin, brushing over her breasts and hips, stroking her thighs.
Her legs spread, and her breath turned ragged as the electricity of the vision's 
touch streamed through her.
The rhythms of the music intensified; the throbbing grew more urgent.
Sandy felt herself writhing now, straining upward against the bonds that seemed 
to bind her to the cloud, every nerve in her responding to the magical touch. 
Her skin felt damp with sweat, and then she felt a tongue—no, dozens of 
tongues—licking it all away. Her own moans mixed with the pulsing rhythms and 
she felt as if she might pass out as wave after wave of pleasure washed over 
her.
"Yes..." she whispered once again. "Oh, God, yes..."
Then, as she gave herself over completely to the sensations of her body, another 
sound broke through the unearthly music in her head.
It was the sound of laughter—laughter that mocked her.
For an instant she tried to pull away, tried to extricate herself from the 
maelstrom of pleasure in which she wallowed, but it was far too late.
Moaning one last time, she submitted herself to the pleasure.
And the laughter grew.
 
No! Not again! Don't let it be happening again!
But instead of instantly passing, leaving her with the eerie feeling that she'd 
just reexperienced something that had happened before, the deja vu only deepened 
its grip on Kim.
It was happening all over again.
Once again she was lost in the house, racing through an endless maze of 
corridors that branched off, then branched again and again, forcing her to make 
a choice at every juncture.
Once more she could sense some unseen menace closing in on her, toying with her, 
circling her, never quite visible, but always drawing closer and closer.
When she came to the top of the flight of stairs with the barely visible 
pinpoint of light at the bottom, she wanted to turn back, knowing what she would 
find when she finally came to the bottom of the stairs and entered the light.
Jared.
But not Jared.
Someone else, someone who looked like Jared but wasn't.
She tried to turn away from the stairs, but now she could hear the music, too, 
faintly throbbing rhythms that, though barely audible, insinuated themselves 
inside her like tentacles wrapping around every nerve in her body, taking over 
control so that she had no choice but to take that first step down into the 
abyss.
Kim's heart pounded with terrible anticipation as she descended the endless 
staircase, and when she finally came to the bottom, it felt as if all the energy 
had been drained from her body, and along with her energy, her will to resist 
had been sapped as well.
The music was louder now, and its hold on her stronger. The point of light stood 
in the darkness like a beacon, and despite her exhaustion, Kim moved toward it. 
After what seemed an eternity, she stood before the final door.
Don't, she told herself. Don't go through the door.
But even as the thought formed in her mind, her hand went to the knob, turned 
it, and slowly pushed the door open. It swung silently inward on its hinges, 
moving as easily as if it were floating weightlessly in the air. And as it 
opened, the strange cathedral appeared before her, its roof soaring so high it 
was all but invisible. Candles—millions of them—flickered everywhere, suffusing 
the vast chamber with a shadowless glow, and filling it with a sweet pungency 
that made Kim feel lightheaded. Straight ahead of her the altar was all but lost 
in the swirling smoke of the candles, but even from the doors she could see that 
something—something familiar—lay at the foot of the inverted cross that hung 
above the altar itself.
As the doors slammed shut behind her, the light of the candles faded into a 
stark white glare punctuated by pools of darkness, a darkness so black that Kim 
shivered with visions of the terrors those shadows might hide.
She wanted to turn, wanted to flee, but her will was not her own.
Slowly, inexorably, she began to walk down the aisle.
Like a bride. The manic thought seemed to come out of nowhere. That thought was 
followed by another: If I'm a bride, where is my groom?
And suddenly she saw him.
A tall figure, clad in a flowing robe of scarlet—the only splash of color in the 
surreal scene—appeared in front of the altar, facing her, one hand outstretched. 
As she moved down the cathedral's broad aisle, the face of the waiting figure 
came into focus. His features were strong and even; his eyes seemed to hold her 
own, drawing her toward him like a moth to a beacon of light.
Then she recognized him.
The figure was Jared.
Jared? she thought. It can't be Jared—you can't marry your own brother.
The figure drew closer.
No, not Jared. It couldn't be Jared. It had to be someone who looked just like 
him. Had to be!
The music, a cacophony of discordant shrieking, battered at Kim's ears as she 
approached the altar. The red-robed figure reached for her hand, and Kim watched 
helplessly as her own hand seemed to rise against her will to slip into his. 
Just as their fingers were about to touch, the face before her changed.
The skin, smooth and milky white only a moment before, turned scaly.
Pustules erupted from the suddenly sunken cheeks.
The clear eyes began to run with cloudy mucus, and the mouth opened to reveal a 
long, sharply pointed tongue that darted toward her, splitting in two, with each 
of the two points morphing into the twin heads of a pair of serpents whose 
mouths gaped open as they hung before her, their fangs dripping with venom, 
their forked tongues lashing out at her.
Her whole body spasming with terror, Kim jerked her hand back, and her fingers 
closed on the golden cross that still hung suspended on her breast where her 
great-aunt had placed it.
The face before her contorted with fury, and the figure twisted aside, screaming 
in rage, phlegm and bile erupting from its gaping mouth.
Sickened, Kim reeled away. As she turned to flee back up the aisle, she saw Luke 
Roberts.
Naked, he lay before one end of the altar, sprawled atop Sandy Engstrom, whose 
arms and legs were wrapped around his glistening torso as she writhed 
ecstatically beneath him. Stunned into frozen immobility, Kim stood rooted to 
the spot as her brother's best friend and her own twisted and flailed on the 
floor before the altar. Then, as if feeling her watching him, Luke looked up, 
and his eyes locked on hers.
He smiled.
Once again Kim saw the face of the demon—eyes running with mucus, skin turned 
into a reptilian hide erupting with pustules. Now the twin serpents burst forth 
from his mouth, along with a terrible, high-pitched laugh that crashed against 
Kim like shattering glass.
Her gorge rising, her throat filling with the burning fire of vomit, Kim turned 
away from the grotesque scene on the floor, and now the grinning visage of the 
demon loomed above her once more, both his hands outstretched, his fingers 
growing into curving talons that dripped with blood. Just as the creature's 
claws were about to sink into her flesh, she turned one last time and raced back 
up the aisle of the cathedral. The aisle seemed to stretch away from her as she 
ran. The taunting laughter she'd heard boiling from Luke's throat was joined now 
by other cackling voices, the peals striking her back like the stinging tips of 
a lash, driving her on despite the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm her.
Finally she came to the doors and burst through, pulling them closed behind her. 
In an instant she was plunged into darkness, but she bolted ahead and a moment 
later stumbled headlong into the bottom of the stairs.
Screaming, she threw her hands out to break her fall and—
Kim jerked awake, a scream still rising in her throat. She choked it back just 
before it could smash the silence of the night, and then she lay still, her 
heart pounding, her mind reeling as the last fragments of the nightmare faded 
away.
She became aware of the faint throbbing of music then, and a glowing point of 
light in the darkness surrounding her.
Oh, God, was she still caught up in the nightmare?
But no—she couldn't be. If she were still in the clutches of the dream, would 
she even be wondering if it was a dream?
She must be awake!
She willed her pounding heart to slow, and as her pulse eased, so also the 
terror that gripped her began to ebb. Disoriented, she looked around.
The library! That's where she was! And the glowing point of light was nothing 
more than the stand-by indicator on the television set!
She sat up. "S-Sandy?" she stammered.
Silence, save for the muted rhythms of the music.
The music from the dream?
She got up and switched on the floor lamp at the end of the sofa on which Sandy 
Engstrom had been sprawled while they watched the movie.
The sofa was empty; Sandy wasn't there.
The details of the dream loomed once more in her mind, and she whimpered softly 
as she saw again the vision of her friend, her body glistening in the 
candlelight, her limbs entwined around—
No!
It hadn't happened! She hadn't seen it! It had only been a dream.
Then where was Sandy?
The question hanging in her mind, Kim moved out of the library and through the 
living room to the entry hall. The house seemed to have grown in the gloom; the 
huge rooms appeared more immense than ever. She crossed the entry hall, moved 
into the parlor and the dining room.
Nothing.
She was passing the door to the basement stairs when she paused. The music—the 
music she had thought was only another vestige of the nightmare—was louder now.
Her terror mounting once again, and wishing she could just turn away, Kim 
reached out and pulled open the door.
The music blared.
She stepped through the door so she was standing on the landing at the top of 
the stairs, gazing down into the darkness.
The darkness, and the faint point of light that leaked through the keyhole of 
the door to Jared's room.
Just like in the dream...
Don't, Kim told herself. Just don't go down there.
But even as the words filled her mind, her feet began carrying her down the 
staircase. With each step she took, the rhythms of the music reached deeper into 
her, and the point of light drew her steadily onward. At the bottom of the 
stairs she stood before the door to Jared's room.
She paused, listening.
Now she could hear more than just the music itself.
Whispered voices, and faint, mocking laughter.
And moans.
Moans of ecstasy.
She was in Jared's room! Sandy was in Jared's room!.
Kim's hand reached for the knob, but she stopped herself as the memory of the 
pagan cathedral she'd seen in her dream—the cathedral that had turned into a 
chamber of horror—rose in her mind. What if it wasn't a dream? What if 
everything she'd seen were somehow real? What if Sandy really was—
Unable to finish the thought, Kim turned away from the door and hurried back up 
the stairs, then shut the basement door behind her and leaned against it.
What should she do?
Should she wake up her parents?
Sandy would never forgive her!
But if she was with Jared and Luke—
Kim felt as if she were caught in another nightmare, but this time she knew it 
wasn't a dream. This time it was real. From behind her the music reached through 
the door, and she could almost feel its tentacles sinking into her once again, 
as it had in the nightmare, trying to draw her back down into the basement.
Just as in her dream, her fingers closed on her aunt's tiny cross, and as she 
felt it in her hand, her resolve strengthened. She left the door to the basement 
and made her way back to the entry hall.
As she started up the great staircase toward the second floor, the waves of 
music receded, loosening their grip on her.
At her parents' door, she hesitated.
Whatever was going on in Jared's room wasn't any of her business.
No one had forced Sandy to go down there.
And if she told on her, Sandy would never speak to her again.
Silently, Kim made her way around the mezzanine to her own room, easing her door 
open just far enough to slip inside, praying it wouldn't creak. Just as she was 
closing it behind her, she realized her room wasn't empty.
Kim froze, listening.
Breathing! She could hear the sound of breathing!
Once again her heart began to race, but even as her fear built, she moved her 
hand slowly toward the light switch on the wall. When she finally felt it 
beneath her fingers, she drew in her breath and held it.
She flipped the switch, and the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling glared 
into brilliant light, washing the darkness from the room.
Sandy Engstrom sat bolt upright in Kim's bed, clutching the sheets around her 
neck. For a long second the two girls stared at each other in shock, then Sandy 
collapsed back against the pillows, giggling. "What are you doing?" she asked 
when she finally subsided. "You scared me half to death!"
"I didn't even know you were up here," Kim began. "I thought—" She was about to 
blurt out the truth when she caught herself. "I woke up, and you were gone, and 
I thought you must have gone home or something. How come you didn't wake me up?"
Sandy rolled her eyes exactly as Kim had when she herself had been frightened by 
watching Scream. "I tried," she said. "When the movie ended, I tried to wake you 
up, but finally I just gave up and came up and went to bed." She looked at the 
clock. It was just past three A.M. "Do you always sleep that hard?"
Kim shook her head. "I thought—" She hesitated, then shrugged helplessly. "I 
don't know what I thought," she finally finished.
She got undressed and slid into bed next to her friend.
Should she tell Sandy about the nightmare?
No. She didn't even want to remember it herself.
But long after Sandy had fallen back to sleep, Kim lay awake as the details of 
the dream came back to hang in the darkness in front of her.
Over and over, she witnessed the wanton scene on the bloody altar, saw over and 
over again the face of the demon that had reached out to her. As the night crept 
on, she tried to banish the visions, but failed.
It was only as the rising sun drove back the dark that the demons finally 
released Kim from their grip and let her sleep.
Even then she could still feel the throbbing rhythms from the basement as the 
tentacles of Jared's music reached out to ensnare her.
She slept, but she didn't rest.


 
 
CHAPTER 27
 
 
It was a dream. It had to have been a dream. Yet even now, with the morning sun 
flooding through the windows, Kim could remember every detail. She lay staring 
up at the ceiling while the horrifying images—the impossible images—she'd seen 
last night recurred in her mind like some insanely repeating videotape, 
endlessly replaying the same sequence.
Beside her, Sandy Engstrom stirred, then sat up, rubbing her eyes. Seeing Kim 
was awake, she pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, 
then eyed Kim warily. "If I tell you about a dream I had, will you promise not 
to tell anybody?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I 
mean, not a soul!"
A flicker of foreboding flashed through Kim, but she nodded.
Sandy's eyes gleamed, and even in the warmth of the morning she shivered with 
remembered pleasure. "It was about Jared."
Kim's stomach knotted as she was consumed by a terrible feeling that she didn't 
want to hear what Sandy was about to tell her. But she heard herself say, "I 
promise. I won't tell a soul."
Sandy hugged her legs more tightly to her chest and sighed. "It was really 
weird," she began. "I was sound asleep, and then I started to wake up. I could 
feel someone touching me, but I wasn't scared at all. It felt really wonderful. 
And when I was wide awake, he took me somewhere. It was the most beautiful place 
I've ever seen. Oh, God, Kim, you should have seen it! It looked kind of like a 
church, but a lot more beautiful than any church I've ever been in!"
No! Kim thought. It's not possible!
As she listened to Sandy, Kim recalled the details of her own dream, in which 
she'd watched Luke making love to her friend.
Could it be that she hadn't been dreaming at all? Her mind reeled as she tried 
to make sense of the possibility that it had all really happened. But that made 
no sense, either. The house was big, but none of the rooms was anywhere near as 
large as the one Sandy described.
The one she herself had seen in her own dream.
Could she have been sleepwalking? Had it been some strange hypnotic state? If 
not a dream, then what?
"Kim?" Sandy said. "Kim, what's wrong? You look white as a ghost. Are you okay?"
Jerked out of her maelstrom of thoughts, Kim nodded mutely. Should she tell 
Sandy they'd both had the same dream—exactly the same dream?
No way. Sandy would think she was crazy. Besides, they couldn't possibly have 
had exactly the same dream, so there must be some other explanation.
Something that made sense.
"I—I'm fine," she stammered at last. "I just didn't sleep very well, that's 
all."
Sandy cocked her head, and for a second Kim had the strange feeling that somehow 
Sandy was looking right into her. But then the color drained from Sandy's face, 
and she scrambled out of bed and hurried toward the door.
"Sandy? What is it?"
"S-Sick," Sandy blurted, clapping her hand over her mouth as she rushed out into 
the hall. Moments later Kim heard the muffled sounds of Sandy throwing up in the 
bathroom next door.
Getting out of bed, Kim hurried toward the bathroom, where her friend was 
kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet. A racking seizure hit Sandy, and 
she retched into the toilet, a blackish fluid spewing from her mouth.
As Kim ran cold water in the sink, soaked a hand towel and pressed it against 
Sandy's forehead, another spume of vomit burst from Sandy's mouth into the 
toilet bowl.
When the seizure passed, Sandy took the wet towel from Kim and eased away from 
the toilet. Not trusting herself to stand, she leaned against the wall and wiped 
her face with the towel.
"I'll get my mom," Kim said, then flushed the toilet and opened the bathroom 
window to let the rancid odor escape.
"Don't," Sandy said, pushing off from the wall and steadying herself against the 
sink. "I—I think I'm okay now. I don't want my mother to know."
"But if you're sick—" Kim began, but Sandy didn't let her finish.
"So I got sick! Remember what I ate last night?" She groaned just thinking about 
the pizza, potato chips, Fritos, cookies, ice cream, and Cokes they'd consumed. 
"I'm okay," she said. "Really, just let me take a shower, and I'll be fine."
But Kim wondered. She'd eaten nearly as much as Sandy. If it was the food, why 
wasn't she sick, too?
Kim stood at the top of the basement stairs, staring down at the closed door to 
Jared's room. Jared had left half an hour ago, so the room was empty.
Should she take a look at it? But how could it possibly look like what she'd 
seen in her dream, and what Sandy Engstrom had described?
But even as she argued with herself, Kim moved down the steep flight of stairs 
to Jared's door.
Don't do it, she told herself as her hand went to the doorknob. It's his room. 
Whatever he's got in there isn't any of your business.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
Inside, she saw nothing more than the four black-painted walls, the workbench, 
Jared's bed, and the mattresses that served as furniture.
No altar.
No stained-glass windows.
Nothing.
A dream, Kim repeated to herself as she went back upstairs.
It was just a dream.
But she didn't believe it.
Something had happened last night.
Something terrible.


 
 
CHAPTER 28
 
 
Ellie Roberts eyed her own image worriedly. The mirror on the back of her closet 
door was so old the silvering was flaking away, but despite the mottled look of 
her reflection, she knew something was wrong. Maybe she shouldn't go. Maybe she 
should just take off the dress—her best one, the one she only wore to mass on 
special holidays—and stay home. But she'd promised Father MacNeill, and a 
promise was a promise, especially to the man to whom she owed so much. When he'd 
mentioned the town meeting, it hadn't seemed so much to ask. Ellie knew 
practically everyone in town, especially the Catholics. She'd grown up with 
them—known them her whole life. But on the evening Father Mack had asked her, 
she'd had a bad dream about it, a horrible dream that woke her up in a cold 
sweat in the middle of the night. Ellie knew what was causing her bad dreams. 
Speaking at the meeting.
She had almost gone to Father MacNeill the next morning and told him she'd 
changed her mind, that she just couldn't do it, couldn't get up in front of the 
whole town to speak. But she'd put it off all day, and the next day, too, and 
every day since then. And every night, she woke up with her skin clammy and 
covered with goose bumps, and a feeling of dread.
And now the night was here and there was no turning back.
Her eyes shifted from the burning face in the mirror to the sparse contents of 
the closet. Just as she decided her best dress was too dressy and reached for 
the dark blue outfit she often wore on Sundays, the doorbell rang. Luke called 
out to her, "Mom! Father MacNeill's here!"
Too late to change.
Her stomach churning, Ellie turned away from the closet, patted her hair 
nervously as she checked herself out in the mirror one last time, then went out 
to greet the priest.
"Ellie, you look lovely," Father MacNeill said, reaching out to take both her 
hands in his own. "I swear, if I weren't a priest you could positively turn my 
head!"
Ellie felt a flush rise on her face, but pleasure turned to embarrassment as her 
son spoke.
"What's going on?" Luke demanded. "How come you're all dressed up?"
Before she could reply, Father MacNeill turned to Luke. "We're going to the 
meeting. Perhaps you'd like to come along."
Luke's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What meeting?"
"To protest the permit the council's considering issuing to convert the old 
Conway house into an inn."
Luke's expression hardened as his gaze swung accusingly back to his mother. 
"That's a bunch of crap!"
Ellie's shocked eyes flicked toward Father MacNeill. "Luke! Don't use that kind 
of language in front of—"
"I'll say whatever I want," Luke declared, his voice rising, his eyes flashing 
angrily. "Just because you don't like Jared is no reason to—"
"It doesn't have anything to do with Jared Conway," Father MacNeill broke in. 
Luke swung around to glower at him.
"Bullshit!" he said. "You got it in for Jared same way as Mom does. What the 
hell's going on?"
"That will be enough, Luke!" Ellie's cheeks burned with shame. "How dare you 
speak that way to Father MacNeill?" She turned to the priest, her hands playing 
nervously at the buttons of her dress. "I'm sorry, Father. Ever since he started 
hanging around with this Jared person—"
"He's not 'this Jared person'!" Luke broke in, his voice trembling with anger. " 
You don't even know him!"
"I don't have to know him," Ellie said, doing her best to keep her own voice 
under control. "I know he's a bad influence on you, and that ever since he came 
to town, you haven't been the boy I raised!"
"Maybe I don't want to be 'the boy you raised,'" Luke shot back, his voice 
mocking his mother's words with mimicry. "Maybe I want to be whoever I am! Did 
you ever think of that?"
"I just want you to be the best person you can—"
"No you don't!" Luke flared. "You want me to be whoever Father MacNeill thinks I 
ought to be. You think I don't see how he runs us? All I ever hear is Father 
Mack says this and Father Mack says that! So now you're gonna go down and make a 
jerk out of yourself in front of the whole town, just 'cause Father Mack says 
so? Jesus!"
"How dare you?" Ellie flared. Her temper snapping, she took a step toward Luke 
and struck him across the face.
The sound of the slap silenced the room like a shot, and for a moment not even a 
breath was drawn. Ellie, her hand stinging, froze, and her eyes flicked toward 
the priest.
Luke's eyes narrowed to slits as he took in his mother's glance, his fingers 
touching his face where the mark of her hand was already starting to show.
Father MacNeill instinctively took a step back, as if somehow to distance 
himself from what had just happened.
"That's right, Ma," Luke said, his voice so low it was no more than a rasping 
whisper. "Hit me. Hit me, then look at Father Mack to see if it's okay." His 
eyes fixed balefully on the priest. "What about it, Father?" he asked, his voice 
injecting venom into the priest's appellation. "Did she do all right? Did she do 
what you wanted her to?"
"I'm sure I can't countenance violence under any circum—" the priest began, but 
Luke didn't let him finish.
"Don't give me that! You think I don't know what's going on around here? It's 
Jared! You don't like him, and Ma doesn't like him, and Sister Clarence doesn't 
like him, and Father Bernard hates his guts. You think I don't know that? You 
think Jared doesn't know it? Well, guess what, Father? Jared's not going 
anywhere!"
"This has nothing to do with Jared," Father MacNeill replied. The careful 
neutrality he always tried to maintain when talking to any of his flock had 
started to crack under Luke's onslaught, and his voice took on a chilly edge. 
"Although it's obvious his influence on you has not been a positive one. And it 
isn't just your mother and I who object to the Conway house being turned into a 
hotel. There are many people who agree with us."
"Not 'us'!" Luke hissed. "You! And I'll bet every single person who agrees with 
you goes to St. Ignoramus, right?"
"Luke!" Ellie cried, again stepping toward her son, her right hand rising 
reflexively.
"Don't!" Luke told her. His body quivered with fury as he glowered at her. 
"Don't you dare hit me again. And don't you go to that meeting, either! You hear 
what I'm saying?"
"Your mother is free to go anywhere she wishes, young man," Father MacNeill 
admonished Luke. "And I will not tolerate your speaking that way to her. 'Honor 
thy father and thy mother that their days may be long'!"
"I don't have a father!" Luke raged. "My father's dead, remember? You're not 
him." He wheeled on his mother once more. "If you go to that meeting, I hope you 
get hit by a truck!" Turning away, he stormed toward the front door.
The silence that fell in the living room as Luke slammed the door behind him 
lasted longer than the one that had followed Ellie's slap.
"He didn't mean it," Ellie finally breathed. "He didn't mean it at all."
Father MacNeill, though, wasn't so sure. To him, it had sounded as if Luke 
Roberts meant every angry word he'd uttered.
Every single one of them.
 
"Mommy! Wanta see!"
Janet lifted Molly out of the stroller and held her up so she could see the 
people milling around in front of Town Hall. Why had she let Ted talk her into 
bringing Molly? What possible interest could a meeting to discuss a zoning 
variance have for a sixteen-month-old? Still, what choice had there been? She'd 
called five possible baby-sitters, but by the time she talked to the fourth one, 
she knew the search was futile. Two of the girls hung up when she told them who 
she was, and the other two had excuses that sounded so flimsy, she was sure 
they'd made them up on the spot. Only the last one had been honest enough to 
admit that there wasn't enough money in the world to get her to spend even a few 
hours alone with a small child in "that creepy old house."
"Jared can take care of her," Ted suggested, but Janet shook her head, 
surprising herself at how quickly she'd dismissed the suggestion. And she stuck 
to her position, despite Ted's arguments, though she could not bring herself to 
voice her growing mistrust of her own son.
Mistrust.
How could it be that in the few short weeks since they'd moved to St. Albans, 
the implicit trust she'd always had in Jared—the certainty that she could always 
count on him, even when Ted had been at his absolute worst—had completely 
eroded? And yet there it was. So many little things, slowly accumulating like 
the tiny trickles of water that eventually merge together to form a mighty 
river. None of them particularly serious taken individually, and all of them 
easily explainable. Certainly Ted had explained them to her over and over, 
reminding her that Jared was almost sixteen and starting to stretch his wings.
Of course he wouldn't spend nearly as much time with his sister as he used to. 
Of course he'd value the privacy of his room in the basement. All boys his age 
start testing the limits of authority at school. And at home. Janet had 
listened, unable to argue, since everything Ted said made complete sense. Yet 
nothing he'd said, none of the reassurances he'd given her, had counteracted the 
cumulative effect of all the small changes in Jared's personality.
She no longer trusted him.
Where once she'd felt nothing but a mother's normal surge of love when he came 
near her, now her guard went up and she felt herself tense.
The same way it used to be with Ted.
She stopped short, realizing that it was a perfect description of how she felt. 
It was as if all the traits she'd hated in Ted—which had vanished since they 
moved to St. Albans—had transferred themselves to Jared!
"Honey?" Ted said. "You okay? Want me to take Molly?"
Jerked from her reverie, Janet let Ted lift Molly out of her arms, and as the 
little girl clung to her father's neck, Janet tried to dismiss the strange idea 
that had just occurred to her. Yet as Molly snuggled contentedly against her 
father's chest, burying her face in his shoulder exactly as she used to do with 
her big brother, the idea only set its roots more deeply in Janet's mind.
"Maybe I should wait outside with Molly," Kim suggested.
With the warmth of Molly's body suddenly gone, Janet felt the fall chill. It was 
late October, after all. She buttoned her sweater. "I don't think so," she 
replied. "But if you don't want to go in—"
"I was hoping the whole family would be here," Ted said.
"Then how come you didn't make Jared come?" Kim countered.
Ted smiled sympathetically at his older daughter. "I know it doesn't seem real 
fair, but I'd sure appreciate it if you'd come in with us. If they see the whole 
family, how can they turn us down?"
"If they haven't already made up their minds," Janet fretted.
"I'm sure some of them have," Ted agreed. "But as Phil Engstrom told us, we've 
got a better than fifty-fifty shot. You heard what he said—if they get to know 
all of us, he doesn't think they'll turn us down."
Then maybe it's a good thing Jared's not here, Kim thought. All through supper 
that night, she'd tried to ignore the argument between her father and her 
brother, but from the moment it began, a hard knot formed in her stomach, and 
she'd only been able to pick at her food. What troubled Kim most, though—even 
scared her—was the way she hadn't been able to pick up anything from Jared. 
Always before, she could glean at least some hint of his feelings, some sensed 
understanding of what was going on with him, almost as if she could share in his 
emotions, at least a little bit.
But not anymore.
Tonight, though she'd heard him getting angrier, she hadn't felt anything at 
all. At first she wondered if he was even really angry, or just acting. But as 
Jared continued to argue with their father, she could hear the fury in his 
voice. She could see it in his face, too. But she couldn't feel it. And when he 
finally left, storming away from the table and out of the house just like their 
father used to do, all she'd felt was relief that he was gone.
Relief!
Was that how her mother had felt all those years, when it had been so bad with 
her father? Relief when he left the house, and anxiety when he came back?
Just the thought of it made Kim shudder.
She heard someone calling her name. Sandy Engstrom was waving to her from across 
the street, showing no sign of the sickness that had seized her that morning.
"Kim!" Sandy called. "Dad says you should all sit with us!"
Abandoning any thought of skipping the meeting, Kim was about to start across 
the street toward the small crowd in front of Town Hall when a horn blared, 
startling her. As her father's hand closed on her arm to pull her back onto the 
sidewalk, she looked up, then froze in horror at what she saw.
It happened so fast that she knew there was nothing that could have been done to 
stop it. Not by her—not by anyone.
The car was coming around the corner, and the woman was already in front of it 
by the time anyone saw her. Time seemed to stand still as Kim gazed at the 
terrible scene. The woman seemed frozen to the spot, her head turned toward the 
car that was about to strike her, her purse clutched in her right hand, her left 
arm outstretched as if to fend off the vehicle.
Then she turned.
Now it seemed to Kim as if she were watching through a telescope. Though the 
woman was half a block away, Kim could see her face as clearly as if they were 
only a foot apart.
The woman's eyes were wide with terror.
Her mouth was agape, though no sound was coming out of it.
And Kim recognized her.
It was the woman she'd seen in her nightmare the night she'd imagined the rats 
crawling up out of the toilet.
The woman who'd been suspended upside down from the cross in the strange 
cathedral.
But how could that be?
Yet now, as she stared in mute horror at the woman, Kim had no idea who she 
might be.
Then the horrifying tableau came to life.
The car's horn blasted again. The woman screamed.
The scream was cut off by a terrible thumping sound.
The woman's body was lifted into the air, and a second later it dropped back, 
falling onto the hood of the car, where it glanced off the windshield and was 
hurled to the street.
There was a screech of brakes, nearly lost in the screams of the crowd. In an 
instant the woman on the street was surrounded. Kim could hear someone shouting 
for a doctor.
Then she saw a priest—Father MacNeill—kneel down by the woman and begin to pray.
Kim's father and mother started to move toward the fallen woman, and she moved 
along with them. But then something, some force, made her pause.
Jared!
She could feel him!
She could actually feel him again!
But where was he?
Stopping, Kim scanned the area and saw nothing except the quickly growing crowd 
around the injured woman, who was now moaning and reaching up for help.
Then she spotted him.
Her brother was standing in the square, perhaps fifty feet away. He was not 
looking at her. He was looking at the woman who'd just been struck by the car.
Looking at her, and smiling.
She opened her mouth to call Jared. Before his name left her lips, however, he 
turned and looked at her, as if she'd actually called to him.
The smile—the strange grimace of pleasure that had twisted his lips as he gazed 
at the accident victim—was gone.
Instead, Kim saw him glaring at her. Glaring at her angrily, as if he'd just 
been—
Kim stopped short, unwilling even to think the word she'd been about to use. But 
as she watched her brother, she knew there was no other way to describe his 
expression.
He looked guilty.
He looked as if he was doing something wrong, and he knew it.
He looked as if he'd just been caught.


 
 
CHAPTER 29
 
 
Phil Engstrom banged the gavel to bring the meeting to order exactly one hour 
after it had originally been scheduled. He struck the podium again and again, 
but the murmur refused to die away as the crowd that had turned out for the 
meeting continued to whisper among themselves about the accident.
An ambulance had arrived from the fire station around the corner less than a 
minute after the car struck Ellie Roberts, and she was rushed to the hospital no 
more than five minutes after she fell to the pavement. Phil himself had seen the 
accident from start to finish, and in his eyes it had been quite simple: Ellie 
stepped out from between two cars to cross the street at exactly the same time 
that Clarie Van Waters turned the corner. To Phil, the accident had been an 
unfortunate confluence of Ellie not watching where she was going and 
eighty-year-old Clarie insisting on driving her ancient DeSoto years after her 
license should have been lifted.
Nevertheless, the rumors began flying even before Ellie was taken to the 
hospital. The crux of the gossip was that since Ellie had been on her way to 
protest the variance Ted Conway wanted, Conway therefore must have had something 
to do with the accident. That Ted had been nowhere near either Ellie or the car 
and could in no way have been responsible seemed to cut no ice whatsoever. The 
problem, Phil thought, was that the accident and the talk that quickly 
accompanied it was enough to change the whole tenor of the meeting. Where an 
hour ago he had sensed that the town was fairly evenly split and a vote could go 
either way, now he could feel support swing toward Father MacNeill's opposition 
to the variance. He'd toyed briefly with postponing the meeting, but quickly 
abandoned that idea, knowing it would be interpreted—correctly—as a stalling 
device. So, even as he banged the gavel to bring the meeting to order, Phil 
Engstrom was wondering about how he and Ted might reverse the decision later.
"All right, everyone," he said. "If we don't want to be here all night, we 
better get started." He droned through the legalisms and rules of procedure, 
then decided to let Father MacNeill have his say first. Better to let Ted see 
what he was up against, he thought, and then decide how to handle it.
Father MacNeill moved to the podium slowly, his head bowed as if he were just 
now thinking about what he wanted to say. Even when he faced the crowd, he said 
nothing, fingers tented beneath his chin as if he were still deep in thought, or 
perhaps even seeking divine guidance. But when he finally spoke, he never 
mentioned God or the Church. The Catholics in the room, Phil Engstrom knew, were 
mostly already convinced. Instead, Father MacNeill talked about the history of 
the town, about its stability, about its continuity. Phil Engstrom didn't even 
need to look at the approving nods coming from every part of the room to sense 
which way the wind was blowing.
"Here in St. Albans," the priest said, moving into his summation, "there has 
always been a place for everything, and everything has always been in its place. 
Certainly, none of us can have any objection to a new inn opening in our town. 
I, for one, would support it. But the Conway house stands in a residential 
area—a family area—and to invite strangers into the very heart of our 
neighborhood strikes me as folly." His eyes moved from face to face. "The place 
for strangers—and whatever pleasures they might seek—does not lie in the area in 
which our children play." A murmur of approval rippled over the room, and Phil 
Engstrom knew it was all over. The priest's invocation of the specter of child 
molestation—although he hadn't quite said it—would be enough.
As Father MacNeill moved back to his seat, pausing every few steps to accept the 
murmured praise of his parishioners, Phil turned the podium over to Ted Conway. 
"Good luck," he muttered under the rustle of the audience readjusting themselves 
on the hard benches, though he didn't see how Ted was going to turn this around. 
Right now, he didn't think Conway would get more than ten votes out of the whole 
lot of them.
Ted stood at the podium, gazing out at the sea of faces that filled the 
auditorium. Throughout the priest's speech, he had felt the mood of the room 
harden, sensed that what little support he'd had left when the meeting opened 
was washing away under the cleric's river of words.
But Ted had also noticed that as Father MacNeill scanned the audience, 
addressing himself first to one person, then to another, meeting the eyes of 
nearly everyone in the room, he'd never looked at him.
Not once.
Now, Ted's own eyes sought out the priest, who was sitting next to Father 
Bernard with his head bowed while his fingers manipulated his rosary beads. Ted 
willed him to look up, to meet his gaze.
Though Father MacNeill continued to pray, Ted was certain he saw the line of the 
priest's jaw harden.
He can feel me, Ted thought. He knows I want him to look at me, and he won't do 
it. His eyes shifted away from Father MacNeill, and once more he scanned the 
room.
A month ago he would have been feeling the thirst for a drink—indeed, he 
wouldn't have come to the meeting at all without at least a couple of belts of 
scotch to bolster his courage. But not tonight. Tonight, as he gazed out at the 
hostile eyes fixed on him, he felt no desire for a drink.
Nor any fear that he would fail.
Ted picked a man in the fourth row whose eyes were already smoldering, although 
he had yet to utter a word.
"My family has been in St. Albans as long as St. Albans has existed," he said. 
"I know it. You know it." He focused on the angry-looking man. "We've all heard 
the stories, and I'm not going to deny them." The man frowned, looking less 
certain. "But I'm not going to talk about those old stories. Instead, I'm going 
to talk about myself, and my wife, and my three children, and the dream I have."
The audience stirred once again, and Ted saw that it wasn't only the man in the 
fourth row who now looked uncertain; he saw hostility dissolving into curiosity 
throughout the room. When he resumed speaking, his voice was as low as Father 
MacNeill's had been, but commanded every bit as much attention as the priest's. 
Slowly, his eyes moving from one face to another, he told the story of how he 
had come to bring his family to St. Albans.
 
It's not possible, Janet thought. Though she couldn't see the audience from her 
place in the front row, she could sense the change in the atmosphere of the 
room. Even Molly, who wriggled in her lap all through Father MacNeill's speech, 
had settled down, as if the sound of her father's voice was enough to calm her. 
Where did he learn to do this? Janet wondered as she watched Ted speak to the 
crowd. Soon after he began to speak, his eyes met her own for a moment. In that 
instant, as he talked about what their life had been like only a few weeks ago, 
she felt a sense of empathy so great—a certainty that he not only understood 
exactly how she had felt, but that there was nothing he wouldn't do to make up 
for it—that tears came to her eyes. His gaze shifted from her, releasing her 
from the grip of his own emotions just as she was on the verge of crying. "It's 
going to be okay, Mom," she heard Kim whisper. "Daddy's going to make it all 
right." Janet could only nod, not trusting herself to speak.
 
He's all right, Beau Simmons found himself thinking in his seat in the fourth 
row. Maybe Father MacNeill just didn't know him very well. And the Church never 
wanted anything to change. Jeez, if he and Sue Ellen had listened to him, he'd 
be trying to support ten kids by now! And if he hadn't paid attention to what 
Father MacNeill said about birth control, why should he listen to what he 
thought about Ted Conway? The hostility he'd initially felt toward Ted Conway 
melting away, Beau Simmons sat back on the bench and listened intently to every 
word Ted spoke.
 
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. 
...
Father MacNeill's fingers tightened on the beads. He'd gone through the rosary 
twice already, concentrating only on the words he silently spoke to God, 
shutting out the ones Ted Conway was addressing to the townspeople around him. 
But no matter how hard he concentrated, he could feel the change in the room.
The mood of the crowd—the mood that he himself had created so carefully over the 
last few weeks—was rapidly changing.
The Devil take him! the priest silently cursed, then instantly begged 
forgiveness for his blasphemy. But what was he going to do? Should he rise to 
his feet once again, as soon as Conway was done, and try to undo the damage?
No.
The man would only take a second turn himself, spinning out the same silken net 
that was falling over the crowd right now.
Better to ignore it and seek guidance from a higher source.
Once again closing his ears to the sound of Ted Conway's voice, Father MacNeill 
returned to his prayers.
 
For as long as St. Albans has existed, my family has been here," Ted Conway 
finished a little over an hour later. His voice, showing no sign of strain after 
the long speech, reached out across the room, touching everyone there. "All I'm 
asking is that you let me and my family be part of this community. I promise 
you'll never regret it." As the audience gazed silently at him, Ted left the 
podium, shook Phil Engstrom's hand, and returned to his seat.
"Well," the mayor said, gazing out over the room and reading the shift in its 
mood as clearly as Father MacNeill and everyone else who had heard Ted speak, "I 
think we might as well take the vote." He read the variance one more time, then 
looked at the crowd. "All those in favor?"
For a moment no one moved, and Phil wondered if he'd completely misgauged the 
effect of Ted Conway's speech. But then there was a stir of movement in the 
fourth row as Beau Simmons raised his hand. A moment later three more hands went 
up, then another dozen, and soon Phil Engstrom was gazing out at a sea of waving 
hands. "Contra-minded?" he asked, making no effort to hide his pleased smile as 
he saw the scope of the victory.
Father MacNeill, Father Bernard, Sister Clarence, and two other nuns raised 
their hands.
"Well, then I think that's that," the mayor announced. "Congratulations, Ted. 
You have your variance."
A smattering of applause was interrupted when a figure rose at the back of the 
room.
"The work of the Devil!" Jake Cumberland proclaimed, his arm raised, his shaking 
finger pointing directly at Ted Conway. "I'm tellin' you, this is the work of 
the Devil!"
The townspeople turned to the source of the outburst. "Oh, for God's sake," Beau 
Simmons hooted when he recognized Jake. "Who let you in?"
The tension broken, a wave of laughter broke over the room, and suddenly they 
were all on their feet, crowding around Ted and Janet, offering congratulations. 
As the crowd pressed in, Molly began to cry, and Kim took her from her mother's 
hands and quickly moved through the crowd and outside.
Standing on the steps in the cool and quiet of the night, Kim could see Father 
MacNeill and Father Bernard, together with the three nuns who had accompanied 
them, making their way across the square. She also saw Jake Cumberland. He stood 
beneath a streetlight, staring at her, and for a moment her eyes met his. Then 
he turned away, shaking his head as he started down the street. But even as he 
retreated, she heard him talking to himself, and the words rang in Kim's ears 
and made her hold Molly close.
"The Devil's work," he said once again. "It's all the Devil's work."
 
She's been like this since a little after she arrived." Sue Ellen Simmons 
nervously twisted one of the buttons on the blouse of her nurse's uniform as she 
looked down at Ellie Roberts's face. Her complexion was ashen, and her eyes 
seemed to be focused on something off in the distance, as if she were gazing at 
something far beyond the unadorned wall six feet beyond the end of the hospital 
bed in which she lay. Her right arm was in a cast, and there were a few 
abrasions on her face, but other than that, she was uninjured. "I just don't 
understand it," Sue Ellen fretted. "She was in shock when she came in, of 
course, but who wouldn't be? And she was talking—asking about Luke, asking where 
he was. But when we asked what happened—just whatever she remembered, you 
know?—she got this look on her face and she hasn't said a word since. Not one 
word."
"What does the doctor say?" Father MacNeill asked.
"When she first came in, I figured she'd be on her way home within an hour," Sue 
Ellen replied. "But Doctor might keep her overnight."
The meeting at Town Hall had ended half an hour ago. Father MacNeill hadn't even 
taken the time to stop at the rectory before coming to the hospital to see 
Ellie, and when he'd told Sue Ellen that even her husband had voted for Ted 
Conway, she'd clucked her tongue.
"Something's going on," she'd said. "Beau told me himself there was no way he 
was voting for that variance. He said everyone knows Ted Conway's an alcoholic, 
and there's nothing Beau hates worse than a drunk." She shook her head sadly. 
"His pa used to beat him, you know."
"I'd like to talk to her alone," Father MacNeill said now. "If you don't mind?"
"That might be the best thing for her," Sue Ellen replied. "If you need 
anything, I'll be right down the hall."
He waited until the nurse was gone, then pulled a chair close to Ellie Roberts's 
bed. Taking her left hand in his, he patted it gently. "Ellie? Ellie, it's 
Father MacNeill. Can you hear me?"
For nearly a minute there was no reaction from Ellie. Just as Father MacNeill 
was about to speak again, he felt a slight pressure on his hand and saw a 
flicker of movement in Ellie's eyes. Then he heard her voice, so faint it was 
all but inaudible.
"Father, forgive me," she whispered, her lips barely moving, "for I have 
sinned...." She trailed off into silence. Father MacNeill waited. When Ellie 
said nothing more, he reached out and gently stroked her forehead.
"I don't believe that, Ellie," he said. "Whatever happened, it was only an 
accident. You didn't sin, and you weren't being punished."
Another long silence fell over the room. Ellie didn't seem to react to his 
words, but Father MacNeill sensed that she'd heard them.
He waited.
It was nearly five minutes before Ellie's head turned just enough so her eyes 
could gaze into his. When their eyes met, Father MacNeill knew there was 
something different about her, that something deep inside her had changed.
"What is it?" he asked. "What happened, Ellie?"
Her fingers tightened painfully on the priest's hands. When she finally spoke, 
her voice trembled and her eyes filled with terror. "Evil," Ellie whispered. 
"I've seen the face of Evil, Father."
Father MacNeill felt a chill, but did his best to slough it off. "It was only an 
accident, Ellie," he soothed.
Ellie shook her head. "No!" Her voice took on a harsh intensity as her fingers 
clamped the priest's more tightly. "No, you don't understand, Father. It wasn't 
an accident!"
Father MacNeill felt the icy mantle of foreboding close around him. "Tell me," 
he whispered, his voice trembling. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Ellie Roberts tensed. She didn't want to tell the priest what she'd seen, didn't 
want to remember it at all. Yet since Sue Ellen Simmons had asked her about the 
accident, she'd been fixated on the image that had seared her mind the instant 
before Clarie Van Waters's car struck her.
There'd been nothing wrong. Nothing at all. She was waiting to cross the street, 
and no matter what anyone said, she hadn't been careless. She looked both ways, 
just as she always did, and saw Clarie's car coming around the corner. She could 
still remember it perfectly; even remember the exact words that had gone through 
her mind: Uh-oh, here comes Clarie—better stay on the curb until she's gone all 
the way past.
But for some reason, which she hadn't understood, she found herself stepping off 
the curb between two of the cars parked across the street from Town Hall.
She'd seen Clarie bearing down on her. Even now she could watch it like a movie 
running in her head. Clarie's car was coming around the corner and heading right 
toward her. If she didn't stop, didn't stay where she was, safely tucked between 
the red Taurus and the white minivan, there would be no way Clarie could avoid 
hitting her.
But she didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
It was as if some force—some unseen power—had taken control of her and pushed 
her out from between the cars, impelling her to step in front of Clarie's old 
DeSoto just as if she hadn't seen it.
At the last second she tried to turn away from the force, to rip herself loose 
from its grip. Twisting around, her eyes hunted for the source of the power that 
held her, and then she saw it.
Jared Conway!
He was standing only a few yards from her, and looking right at her.
But how did she know it was him? She'd never seen him before—she was sure of it.
Yet the moment her eyes met his, she knew who he was.
And then, as Clarie's car bore down on her, he smiled.
But it wasn't a smile; not really. Rather, it was a cruel twisting of his lips, 
as if he was anticipating what was about to happen to her, and relishing the 
pain she was about to feel.
Then, in an instant, his face changed.
His lips twisted and stretched, and she saw sharp fangs jutting from bloodied 
gums. Saliva dripped from his mouth, and when his tongue flicked out, she could 
feel the sting of its forked tip, even though he stood less than ten yards away.
Everything about him changed in that instant. His ears grew pointed, and his 
skin red and scaly. His body swelled, and his clothes fell away, revealing skin 
that was a tissue of suppurating, festering boils oozing pus that clung to him 
in reeking globules. His eyes narrowed to glowing slits, and his fingers 
lengthened into viciously taloned claws that stretched toward her.
The single scream she uttered, the one cut off by the impact of Clarie's car, 
had less to do with her fear of the oncoming car than her shock and terror at 
the visage she beheld. For in that single instant before she was lifted off the 
street and tossed from the hood of the DeSoto, she recognized the face of evil.
"The Devil," she whispered now as she clung to Father MacNeill's hand, which had 
turned cold and clammy as he listened. "That's what I saw, Father. The Devil 
himself." But then a glint of triumph flickered in Ellie Roberts's eyes. "He 
didn't get me, though. He tried, but I'm still here. And tomorrow morning I'll 
be in church, just like always."
"You don't have to do that, Ellie," Father MacNeill told her, but she shook her 
head.
"I do," she whispered. "I've looked on the Devil himself, and now I need to look 
to God. I'll be there."
As Ellie Roberts dropped back against the pillow, exhausted after recounting 
what she'd seen, a series of images flicked through Father MacNeill's mind.
Beau Simmons, whose innate stubbornness had evaporated in the face of Ted 
Conway's mesmerizing speech in Town Hall. His opinion, usually so stubbornly 
held that no logic in the world could change his mind once he'd made it up, had 
bent to Ted Conway's will that night like a reed bowing to the wind.
Jake Cumberland, rising at the back of the room to point an accusing finger at 
all of them, his voice nearly echoing what Ellie Roberts had just told him: "The 
work of the Devil! I'm telling you, this is the work of the Devil!"
Releasing Ellie's hand, he rose from the hard chair and went to the window. The 
moon, nearly full, was high in the sky, bathing the town in silvery light.
Was it possible?
Surely it had to be something else.
Jake was a superstitious man whose mother had filled his imagination with all 
kinds of tales as he'd grown up.
Beau Simmons, for once in his life, might simply have changed his mind. Even he 
himself, Father MacNeill recalled, had felt his resolve weakening in the face of 
Ted Conway's spellbinding speech. And if he could be swayed, who in the hall 
that night could not have been?
And Ellie Roberts? Who knew what aberrations the shock and pain of the accident 
might have caused in her mind? She might easily have blacked out, even for a few 
seconds, and seen some fragment of a nightmare left over from her childhood. But 
to have seen the Devil in the body of a fifteen-year-old boy? Surely it was 
impossible.
And yet, deep inside, Father MacNeill knew he was lying to himself.
He knew that at the core of his being, in the place where his faith and his 
religion resided, he believed every word she'd told him.
She'd seen the Devil.
He was right here, in the heart of St. Albans.
Just as he'd always been.
 
It was well past midnight—long after the hour that normally found Monsignor 
Devlin whispering the last prayers of the evening before offering his arthritic 
bones the respite of his bed. On this night, though, he was aware of neither the 
hour nor the pain in his body, so consumed was he with the final pages of the 
Bible that Cora Conway had entrusted to his care. For a quarter of a century 
after Bessie Delacourt's scrawled entry, no one had written in the Bible at all, 
but then Abigail Smithers Conway had taken up a pen and continued the account of 
the Conway family. Abigail's hand was far more sure than Bessie's had been, but 
the story she had slowly unfolded was so painful that the old priest had been 
able to read only small pieces of it at a time.
Tonight, though, he went back and read it through from the beginning....
 
15 May 1937
Today I opened this Bible for the first time. My purpose was only to record the 
death of my husband, Francis Conway, three days ago. I had not wished to read 
these pages, for I am afraid I   have always been something of an ostrich—I 
prefer not to see things as they truly are.  But Frank is gone and I must now 
Face the truth of the last twenty-five years.
Though I would not let myself even think it, I believe I must have known that 
Bessie Delacourt did not leave my husband's house the night before our wedding 
to go to Atlanta, as he always told me. I chose to believe him that day, and in 
making that choice I condemned myself to accept whatever he told me during all 
the years of our marriage. It seems that a lie must become the truth if one is 
to live with it throughout one's life.
Believing Frank, though, did not mean I was deaf to the whispers that have 
swirled like dead leaves around this house for all the years I have lived in it, 
and though I tried not to, I always heard Bessie's voice in my mind, telling me 
that I would know when it was time to read these pages.
 
Frank killed Bessie.
 
I believe that, just as I believe he killed Francesca's sister—his own daughter!
I thought—hoped?—that all the terrible things I have dreamed over the years were 
only nightmares filled, with demons and rituals from which I would awaken 
screaming.
After my nightmares I would hear the rumors, though no one ever spoke them to my 
face.
So many babies—ltttle girls all—vanishing in the night without a trace.
I always told myself the children never came to play with Phillip and George 
because of other things, but after reading these pages, I know the truth.
My sons had no friends because the other children's parents were afraid for 
them.
It seems that they were right.
Phillip must have known, too, for he left when he was fifteen and has not come 
back—I fear I shall never see him again..
I do not know what the future holds, though I am sure that I, like Francesca and 
her little daughter Eulalie, will never be able to escape this place. I do not 
know about Francy's husband. Abraham Lincoln Cumber—land seems a good man, but 
surely he must hate all of us.
 
1 November 1937
Abe Cumberland was hanged last night. The men came for him at midnight, wrapped 
in sheets, their torches filling the air with smoke. It was like one of my 
nightmares come to life, and when George pointed to the rooms above the carriage 
house where Abe and Francy live with their little Eulalie, I screamed and 
screamed, hoping to wake up.
I did not.
Instead I was condemned to watch little Eulalie—who is only five—as my own son 
helped the mob to lynch her father.
They said Abe had stolen a baby, and killed her.
I do not believe it, for I saw that infant die in one of my dreams, and I saw my 
son holding the knife above her little breast. But even now I cannot bring 
myself to speak any of it aloud.
 
22 January 1950
Eulalie Cumberland's child will be born soon. If it is a girl, I fear for what 
my son might do. I—
 
AS THE PAIN STRUCK HER CHEST, THE PEN IN ABIGAIL CONWAY'S HAND SKIDDED ACROSS 
THE PAGE, LEAVING A JAGGED LINE THAT WOULD BE THE LAST MARK SHE MADE IN THE 
WORLD. SHE CRIED OUT AS THE SECOND STAB OF PAIN LASHED THROUGH HER, SHOOTING 
DOWN HER LEFT ARM INTO HER FINGERTIPS. AS THE AGONY MOMENTARILY RECEDED, THE 
DOOR TO HER ROOM OPENED AND HER DAUGHTER-IN-LAW HURRIED IN.
"MOTHER CONWAY?" CORA ASKED ANXIOUSLY. "WHAT IS IT? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?"
ABIGAIL STRUGGLED AGAINST THE SURGE OF PAIN, AND SHOOK HER HEAD. HER HANDS 
TREMBLING, SHE CLOSED THE BIBLE THAT LAY OPEN ON THE DESK IN FRONT OF HER, AND 
REPEATED THE SAME WORDS TO CORA THAT BESSIE DELACOURT HAD SPOKEN TO HER 
THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS EARLIER. "YOU'LL KNOW WHEN TO READ IT," SHE WHISPERED AS ONCE 
AGAIN THE HOT KNIVES SLICED HER. "YOU'LL KNOW."
AS CORA CONWAY RELIEVED HER OF THE BURDEN OF THE BIBLE, ABIGAIL SLUMPED IN THE 
CHAIR. DARKNESS CLOSED AROUND HER AND SHE WAS FINALLY RELEASED FROM THE AGONY OF 
HER RUPTURING HEART, AND THE TERROR THAT HAD RULED HER LIFE. SHE DESERTED HER 
BODY GRATEFULLY; WHATEVER ETERNITY HELD FOR HER COULD NOT BE AS TERRIBLE AS THE 
YEARS SHE HAD SPENT IN THE CONWAY HOUSE.
 
"So much evil," Monsignor Devlin muttered as he finished the last entry, which 
had been written by Cora Conway a few days before her husband hanged himself, 
and her baby—along with Eulalie Cumberland—had vanished. Cora herself had done 
little more than describe Abigail's last moments, and add a few cryptic words of 
her own:
 
Perhaps Eulalie's magic can end the evil of the Conways. I doubt it, though, for 
I often wonder if it is not the Conways who are evil, but this house itself.
 
And that was the end. Except for the missing pages, the dark history of the 
family was complete.
As he closed the Bible, Monsignor Devlin felt someone behind him, and turned to 
find Father MacNeill standing close to his chair.
"So Jake is one of them," the younger priest said softly. "It's no wonder he 
hates them, is it?"
Monsignor Devlin shook his head. "Nor can we blame him, can we?" Not waiting for 
any reply, he went on, "But we still don't know how it started—where it began."
Father MacNeill was silent for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was grim. 
"'The work of the Devil,'" he said. "That's what Jake called it tonight at the 
meeting. 'The work of the Devil.' Maybe he's right."
Monsignor Devlin sighed, wishing he could argue with Father MacNeill. But he 
could not, for every syllable the younger man had spoken rang with truth.


 
 
Halloween   


 
 
CHAPTER 30
 
 
Father MacNeill barely slept. When the first light of the sun crept through the 
window of his small room on the second floor of the rectory, he wished he could 
pull his single thin blanket over his head and hide from the day. But he 
resisted temptation, despite his certainty that he would find no more rest in 
the brilliance of the morning than in the darkness of the night that had finally 
passed, so upset had he been by the last entries he and Monsignor Devlin had 
read in the Bible Cora Conway had entrusted to her last confessor.
The Bible that was itself a confession of the sins of the Conways.
But more than those chronicles of ancient wrongs had kept him awake. Through 
those early hours when sleep refused to come, he'd also had the uneasy sense 
that somewhere beyond the walls of the rectory, evil was afoot. He tried to tell 
himself it was nothing more than a reaction to the horrors of which he'd read, 
but the feeling stayed with him. Several times he left his bed to peer out into 
the darkness, searching for the source of the unease that kept him from sleep.
There had been nothing.
Nothing, at least, that he could see or hear, save for the flickering of a few 
jack-o'-lanterns left lit on porches or in darkened windows, and the plaintive 
hooting of an owl hunting in the darkness.
Yet he'd known that somewhere, concealed in the blackness, some evil was hidden. 
Each time he turned away from the window, he dropped to his knees in 
prayer—prayer that brought him no comfort. The hours seemed to stretch on 
forever in an endless cycle of searching, praying, and tossing restlessly on the 
thin pallet that was all he allowed himself for a mattress.
Now, he rose, stretched the knots of tension from his arms, pulled on his 
clothes, and went down to the kitchen. Putting on a pot of coffee, he went to 
the front door, where the Sunday newspaper would be waiting. As he was bending 
down to pick up the paper, something in the periphery of his vision caught his 
attention. The unease of the last hours flooding back to him, Father MacNeill 
straightened up, scanning the gardens around the rectory, the churchyard, and 
the cemetery. Nothing seemed amiss. But as he looked at the cemetery a second 
time, he saw it.
One of the mausoleums—one whose very presence had always offended him—didn't 
look quite right.
From where he stood on the porch of the rectory, staring at it, he could see 
that the door of the crypt was slightly ajar. It was the narrow shadow cast by 
the open door, he realized, that had caught his attention as he bent down to 
pick up the paper.
Going back into the rectory, Father MacNeill called the police department, and 
was relieved when one of his own parishioners answered the telephone. As he sat 
down to await the arrival of Ray Beckwith—who had spent his entire career as 
one-quarter of the town's tiny police force—his fingers counted the beads of his 
rosary. His lips moved rapidly as he silently spoke the words of his prayers, 
repeating them until his orisons were interrupted by the chime of the doorbell. 
As he opened the door, the look of mild curiosity on Sheriff Beckwith's face 
turned to one of concern.
"Are you all right, Father Mack?" the officer asked. "You look like you've seen 
a ghost."
"I didn't sleep well last night," the priest confessed. "I had a sort of—well, I 
suppose you could call it a premonition. And I'm afraid it might have come 
true."
Beckwith's brows knit into a worried frown. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure yet," Father MacNeill said. "But something happened in the 
cemetery last night, and I called you right away. I didn't want to run the risk 
of disturbing anything."
"Disturbing anything? You mean like one of the graves?"
"One of the crypts," MacNeill told him. "Let me show you."
Together, the two men made their way through the cemetery until they were 
standing in front of the mausoleum. Now, though, they could see that it wasn't 
simply that the door had been opened.
It had been defaced, as well: above the door, staining the white marble, was a 
bloodred pentagram.
"Oh, Jesus," Ray said softly. "Who'd want to do a thing like that?"
The priest gazed at the pentagram in silence, and then the inscription beneath 
the crypt's door:
 
GEORGE CONWAY
BORN JULY 29, 1916
DIED JUNE 4, 1959
 
"I'm afraid I can think of a lot of people who might want to do something like 
that," the priest said, his voice grim. He shook his head. "I still don't 
understand why they let him be buried here. He died in sin."
Beckwith's lips pursed. "That's why they deconsecrated this part of the 
cemetery. That's how come the fence is around the mausoleum."
Father MacNeill shook his head. "It's still within the grounds of the church," 
he insisted, his agitation rising. "It should never have been done."
Beckwith sighed, unwilling to argue with the priest. "Not much anybody can do 
about it now. Do you want to take a look at the coffin?"
"Don't you need to find out if there are fingerprints?" the priest countered.
Beckwith shook his head. "Everything's so weathered and rough, nothing would 
show." He glanced around at the empty streets. "But if you want to have a look 
inside, we better do it now, while there's no one around. Otherwise the whole 
town'll be talking. Let's just not touch anything more'n we absolutely have to."
Together the two men slid the coffin just far enough out of the crypt to reveal 
its broken latches. As Beckwith supported the weight of the coffin, Father 
MacNeill carefully lifted the lid open and peered down into the moldering face 
of George Conway.
The man's eyes had sunk so deep into their sockets they had almost vanished, and 
his skin, no doubt initially treated with embalming fluid, had dried and 
stretched over the years, until now it was a transparent sheath over the skull 
itself. The teeth showed clearly, and the flesh of the neck, though still 
showing the abrasion of the noose that had killed him, had desiccated to the 
point that it seemed the black suit George Conway had been buried in had been 
put on nothing more than a skeleton.
The priest leaned closer. As his eyes fell on the hands that had been crossed 
over Conway's chest, he gasped.
The right hand was missing, severed at the wrist.
When the priest gasped, Ray Beckwith struggled to peer around the open lid, and 
finally worked his way far enough around the end to afford a clear view. "Oh, 
Christ," he whispered. "What in hell is going on?" Then, remembering to whom he 
was talking, he quickly apologized. Holding his breath against the odor of 
ancient death drifting out of the open casket, Beckwith bent to examine the 
corpse. The cut in the leathery skin looked fresh, and there was a clean nick in 
the end of one of the arm bones.
"It was done last night," the priest said softly. "I'm sure of it."
"Okay," Beckwith said. "Let's just close it up for now. I'll get a crew out here 
later on to examine the area more closely. Let's just have us a look around the 
rest of the cemetery and see if they did anything else."
Sliding the coffin back into the crypt, they closed the door as carefully as 
they'd handled the coffin itself, then walked through the cemetery, looking for 
any other signs of vandalism.
The graveyard appeared undisturbed, until they came to the grave of Cora Conway.
On a tree next to her grave, held in place by the sharpened end of a crucifix, 
was the skin of a dead cat, complete except for its head.
But it wasn't the grizzly hide of the cat upon which Father MacNeill's eyes 
instantly fixed, but the profaned crucifix.
He recognized it immediately.
It had come from inside his own church.
He turned to face the policeman.
"We're going to find out who did this," he said, his voice unsteady. "We're 
going to find out, or I fear all our souls will burn in Hell. Every single one 
of us."


 
 
CHAPTER 31
 
 
But what will Father MacNeill say?" Marge Engstrom waited for her words to have 
their expected effect on her daughter. But when Sandy announced that she didn't 
care what Father MacNeill said, she was too tired to go to church that morning, 
Marge's brow creased in frustration. "I don't know what's gotten into you, 
Sandra Anne," she declared, using her daughter's full name, which she only did 
when seriously annoyed. "You know perfectly well that after last night—"
"After last night, why would it matter if any of us go?" Sandy protested. 
"Father MacNeill's already mad at us, isn't he? I don't see how me going to 
church is going to make any difference!"
"He's not angry at us," Marge explained with a note of exaggerated patience that 
only made Sandy want to dig her heels in and stick to her position. "It wasn't 
your father who swayed the meeting last night—it was Ted Conway. But if we don't 
go to church this morning, Father MacNeill might very well assume that we've 
taken a position against him."
"Well, haven't we?" Sandy demanded.
Marge pursed her lips. "As mayor, your father didn't vote last night, and though 
you may not have noticed, neither did I. Your father wants to maintain a 
position of neutrality, for the good of the entire community."
"You mean he wants to be reelected," Sandy said, and saw by her mother's wince 
that she was right.
Marge Engstrom recovered quickly. "Your father is a very good mayor, and part of 
the reason he's a good mayor is that he maintains bridges to every part of our 
community. If you look at the votes two years ago—"
Sandy rolled her eyes. "I read Dad's campaign brochure, Mom. I even wrote part 
of it, remember? And I'm still not going to church!"
Marge eyed Sandy carefully, wondering yet again if perhaps it had been a mistake 
to let her spend the night at the Conways'. It was a thought that had occurred 
to her when Sandy came home looking like death warmed over. Her face had been 
sallow, and her eyes so dark that Marge didn't think she could have slept at 
all. What on earth had she and Kim Conway been up to?
"Nothing," Sandy had insisted. "All we did was watch a couple of horror movies 
and go to bed."
"Well, no wonder you look so terrible," Marge had replied. "I swear, I don't 
know why they let them make those terrible movies. All that blood and violence! 
Why can't you and your friends watch nice movies? I'll bet you didn't sleep a 
wink. Not a single wink."
By yesterday afternoon, after Sandy had a long nap, she'd seemed fine. But this 
morning she looked pale again.
The argument over church had been going on for half an hour. Now, with only 
fifteen minutes left before mass, Marge gave up. "Well, I guess I can't force 
you," she told Sandy, making one last effort, "but you're the one who'll have to 
answer to your father. He'll be very disappointed in you. It's very important to 
him that the family be together on Sunday morning."
It's important for us to be seen together, Sandy silently corrected, certain her 
mother knew as well as she did that if her father really wanted them all to be 
together, he wouldn't go off to play golf every Sunday morning, and meet them at 
church just in time for them to walk down the aisle together. Did he really 
think he was fooling anybody? "Maybe I'll go later," she offered, but knew she 
wouldn't.
The moment she woke up that morning, she knew she couldn't sit through one of 
Father MacNeill's masses today. Just the thought of it made her feel almost as 
sick as she'd been yesterday morning at Kim's. But now that she'd gotten out of 
church, she was starting to feel better. Maybe, after her mother left, she'd 
just go back to bed for another hour.
 
When Marge Engstrom stepped out into the bright fall morning a few minutes 
later, she decided that if Sandy didn't want to go to church, it was her 
daughter's loss, not her own. Besides, Sandy didn't look well, and perhaps just 
this once it really would be better for her to lie down for a while. Surely 
Phil—and God—would forgive her this once!
Marge set out toward St. Ignatius briskly, nodding to everyone she met. Birds 
were chirping, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky, and by the time she was 
across the street from St. Ignatius, even her concern about Sandy had all but 
vanished. Then she saw the activity in the graveyard, and stopped short.
Had someone died?
But no—surely she would have heard about it!
Marge hurried her step. "What's happened?" she asked Corinne Beckwith, who was 
standing just inside the cemetery gate, whispering to Sister Clarence.
"It's terrible." Corinne glanced around to be certain no one else was listening, 
though Marge suspected that whatever Corinne was about to reveal had already 
been repeated—in strictest confidence—to everyone Corinne had talked to already. 
"Ray told me this in the strictest confidence, so you have to promise not to 
breathe a word to anyone. Not anyone!" Then, without waiting for the demanded 
promise to be tendered, she plunged on. "Someone opened up George Conway's 
coffin last night, and cut off his right hand. Can you imagine such a thing? 
Just cut it off! What kind of person would do such a thing! Well, of course it's 
the fault of those Conways. Everything was fine until they came to town. Now the 
church has been vandalized, and people's pets are being slaughtered, and..."
But Marge had stopped listening, her attention drawn to the cat that was pinned 
to the tree with the broken crucifix. For some reason, what kept running through 
her mind over and over like a stuck record were the words Jake Cumberland had 
spoken at the meeting last night: "The work of the Devil! I'm tellin' you, this 
is the work of the Devil!"
For the first time in years, Marge Engstrom didn't wait for Phil to arrive 
before going into the church. With all the tales she'd heard since she was a 
little girl, all the whisperings about the things that had supposedly gone on in 
the Conway house spinning anew through her head, she dipped her fingers in the 
font, made her genuflection, and slipped into her regular pew. When her husband 
sat down at her side a few minutes later, she slid her hand into his. "There's 
going to be trouble," she whispered. "I can feel it."
Then she began to pray. But this morning, her prayers went far beyond her 
regular pleadings for her husband and daughter.
This morning she prayed for the souls of every single person in St. Albans.
 
Father MacNeill dressed for mass with deliberation. Slipping first into the 
finely woven linen alb—pressed perfectly wrinkle-free by his housekeeper, Sister 
Margaret Michael—he fastened the cincture around his waist, then added a stole. 
Finally he put on the chasuble, then gazed at himself in the mirror. Beyond the 
closed door of the vestry he could hear the murmuring of the crowd gathering in 
the sanctuary, but instead of the usual soft, almost chanting rhythms of prayer, 
this morning he heard the excited buzz of gossip winging through the church.
Of course, he had no one to blame but himself—he should never have called the 
police, at least not until he'd investigated the vandalism in the cemetery 
himself. It might even have been all right if they'd sent someone other than Ray 
Beckwith; he should have realized that Ray would be unable to hold anything back 
from Corinne, and everyone in St. Albans knew that if you wanted a piece of news 
spread as rapidly as possible, you simply told Corinne Beckwith, first swearing 
her to absolute secrecy and making her promise not to mention it in the 
newspaper.
And he was certain where they would place the blame: after Ted Conway's 
performance last night, he had gained the support of much of the town—even of 
the St. Ignatius congregation. So it was hardly likely blame would fall where 
Father MacNeill was already certain it belonged. No, much more likely they would 
turn their wrath on Jake Cumberland. Poor, ignorant Jake, who had stood at the 
back of Town Hall last night, denouncing Ted Conway as a tool of the Devil.
And why wouldn't they turn on him? After the accusation he'd made, wouldn't it 
be logical to assume he'd also desecrated the corpse of the man he'd always held 
responsible for the death of his own mother?
"Best them Conways don't come back here ever again," Jake had told him not too 
many weeks ago, when Cora Conway lay dying at the Willows. "They come here, 
they'll have me to deal with. And I know what to do, too. Don't think I don't!"
Father MacNeill had known Jake was speaking of the voodoo crafts he'd learned 
from his mother so many years ago. He hadn't bothered to argue—the priest had 
always understood that one man's faith is another man's superstition, and that 
trying to destroy Jake's belief in his mother's religion would be as useless as 
trying to destroy his own faith in the living Christ.
As the church bell tolled the hour, Father MacNeill smoothed the chasuble one 
last time, picked up his breviary, opened the vestry door, and stepped into the 
sanctuary. For a moment the murmuring went on uninterrupted, but as first one 
person and then another realized their priest now stood before them, the tenor 
of the buzzing changed, and finally died away.
Father MacNeill scanned the congregation. The church was crowded this morning, 
though he suspected that had more to do with the news of the desecration in the 
cemetery than it did with his own powers to preach.
Even Corinne Beckwith, whom he was certain accompanied her husband to church 
only to keep Ray happy, was paying attention this morning. Father MacNeill 
wondered if she had her tape recorder going, or would be content taking notes 
with a pen and paper. But like nearly everyone else in the sanctuary, she 
obviously was expecting him to say something, to explain to them what had 
happened last night. How, though, could he point an accusing finger until he was 
certain he knew the culprit's identity?
As he was still trying to decide what, if anything, to say, the door at the back 
of the church opened and he saw three figures silhouetted against the brilliant 
morning light. They stepped forward, the door closed, and for a moment they were 
lost in the shadows of the vestibule.
Then Janet Conway, holding the hand of her little daughter, Molly, stepped 
forward, dipped her fingers in the font, and dropped into a quick genuflection. 
Straightening, she searched the church for an empty pew.
A moment later Kim repeated the ritual her mother had just performed.
Then Ted Conway stepped forward, slipping his arms almost protectively around 
his wife and older daughter.
Father MacNeill found himself holding his breath as he waited to see if Jared 
Conway would also appear in the church. The seconds crept by, as heads turned to 
see at whom their priest was staring. When Jared didn't appear, Father MacNeill 
finally let out his breath and waited to see what the Conways would do.
Phil Engstrom rose from his seat in the first pew, as if to leave. His wife was 
beside him, though Father MacNeill didn't see Sandy. The mayor's gaze locked on 
Father MacNeill's, and the priest saw that even the mayor had finally rejoined 
the ranks of the righteous, abandoning his support of the Conways. Then Phil 
turned and looked directly at Ted Conway, and as the two men's eyes met, the 
priest saw something change. Phil Engstrom appeared uncertain for a moment, and 
then his face cleared and he smiled at Conway. "There's plenty of room here, 
Ted," he declared. "Come and sit with us."
Stunned by the change in the town's mayor, Father MacNeill watched as the 
Conways made their way down the aisle, every eye in the church tracking them. 
Only as they edged into the Engstroms' pew did anyone speak.
"If there's room in this church for them, then there isn't for me," Ellie 
Roberts declared. Rising from her seat, her right arm in a sling, she stepped 
out into the aisle and, limping heavily, left the church.
Father MacNeill waited. No one else left.
Then he turned his back to the congregation and began celebrating the mass in 
the old tradition: facing the altar and intoning the words in the ancient 
language of the Church. The Latin phrases rolled from his tongue in fulsome 
cadences, and when he finally turned to face the congregation, every one of them 
had closed their eyes as he recited the final benediction.
Every one of them, except for one.
Ted Conway's eyes were wide open.
And they were blazing with undisguised hatred.
 
Janet glanced at the clock on the wall of the big reception room in the parish 
hall. Its hands seemed not to have moved since the last time she'd looked. The 
mass had ended an hour ago, but Ted insisted they stay for the hospitality hour. 
Every minute had seemed like an hour as she stood with Marge Engstrom, 
pretending she didn't notice how few people approached them, or see the hostile 
clutches of parishioners whispering to each other while pretending not to glance 
her way. Worst of all were those who spoke to Marge but ignored Janet and her 
family completely, acting as if they simply weren't there. And everywhere she 
looked, Ellie Roberts was there, whispering to one group after another. All the 
goodwill Janet had felt after the town meeting had evaporated; if the meeting 
were to be held again tonight, she was sure there wouldn't be a single person in 
the room who would vote with them. "It's like they think we had something to do 
with what happened last night," she said as Ted and Phil finally came over to 
join them.
Shortly after mass was over, the Conways heard about the desecration of their 
uncle's tomb, and the grisly object pinned to the tree. Though Kim refused even 
to look at the cat's hide, Janet and Ted identified it as Muffin's. Tears had 
streaked Kim's face when she learned the fate of her pet, but she wiped them 
away, refusing to expose her pain to a town that had suddenly turned so hostile.
Ted shook his head. "It's not that so much as Ellie Roberts—she's telling 
everyone that Jared made her walk in front of that car."
"But that's stupid!" Kim burst out, breaking out of her grief over her pet to 
defend her brother. "I saw Jared, and he wasn't anywhere near Mrs. Roberts!" As 
almost everyone in the room turned to stare at her, she flushed with 
embarrassment. "Can't we go home, Daddy?" she begged. "Please?"
For a moment Janet thought Ted was going to argue with Kim, but instead he 
nodded. "Sure. I don't think we're going to be able to bring any of these people 
around right now, anyway." Saying goodbye to Phil and Marge Engstrom, they 
stepped out into the bright sunlight.
Just being outside of the parish hall—and away from the hostility she'd felt 
radiating from nearly everyone in it—Janet began to relax. But when Ray Beckwith 
stopped them before they'd even reached the sidewalk, her anxiety came rolling 
back.
"Do you know where your son was last night, Mr. Conway?" Beckwith asked.
Ted's eyes fixed angrily on the officer. "He was at home. Why?"
"Now, don't get all het up," Beckwith said quickly. "I have a job to do here, 
and all I'm trying to do is—"
"All you're trying to do is blame my son for vandalizing my uncle's mausoleum?" 
Ted demanded. "Why shouldn't I get 'het up,' as you so picturesquely put it?"
"I'm not saying he did it—" Beckwith began again, but once more Ted didn't let 
him finish.
"You're damned right you're not! And if you do, I'll slap a lawsuit on your ass 
so fast it will make your head spin!"
Ray Beckwith's face reddened. "Now you just hold your horses, here, Conway—"
"Hold your own damned horses," Ted shot back. His voice dropped to a menacing 
growl. "I'm fed up with what's going on in this town. Since the moment we 
arrived, it seems like a lot of people have been trying to get us to go away. 
For starters, there's Jake Cumberland, right? Where was he last night? The last 
time I saw him was at the town meeting, where he was pointing at me and ranting 
about the Devil! So before you go accusing my son, why don't you check out 
Cumberland?" His gaze shifted toward the church. "And speaking of the Devil, why 
don't we talk about the church, too! It was Father MacNeill who was talking 
against me at that meeting, wasn't it? In fact, the last few weeks he's talked 
to practically everyone in town, trying to get them to vote against letting me 
open a business. And now there's been vandalism in the cemetery next to his 
church, but it was my uncle's crypt that was vandalized. So if I were you, 
Sheriff, I wouldn't be talking to me about this. I'd get my ass in there and 
start asking Father MacNeill and everyone else who's been whispering about us 
all morning what they know about this!"
Ray Beckwith, his ruddy face paling in the wake of Ted's torrent of words, 
stepped back. "Yes, sir, Mr. Conway," he said, his voice suddenly drained of the 
anger he'd shown a moment before. "I can certainly understand your feelings. And 
I'll certainly look into every possibility."
Again Ted fixed his gaze on the policeman. "You see that you do." He turned to 
Janet. "Let's go home."
 
Father MacNeill fairly trembled with rage. "He actually suggested you 
investigate me? And you took him seriously?"
Ray Beckwith quailed before the priest's anger, wondering what he'd done to 
deserve the bad luck to catch the call that morning when the vandalism had been 
discovered. They were seated in the priest's small office, where Father Bernard 
had joined them as Beckwith attempted to piece together the sequence of events. 
It had been discovered that the cross used to pin the cat's hide to the tree 
came from the side chapel in St. Ignatius. But the church had been locked last 
night—Father MacNeill had unlocked it himself before mass that morning. A few 
other people had keys, but none of them would have given a key to Jared Conway, 
or Jake Cumberland, for that matter.
Jared Conway, Beckwith ascertained, had in fact been inside the church, 
unsupervised. Hadn't Father Bernard checked on the work the boys had done? And 
if he had, how had he failed to notice that missing cross right away?
A vein in Father Bernard's forehead throbbed as he admitted he hadn't actually 
examined the boys' work that afternoon. Beckwith turned to Father MacNeill. 
"Seems to me at least one of you might've noticed if that cross had been missing 
since the boys cleaned the church."
That was when Father MacNeill started getting angry. "I'm in and out of the 
church a hundred times a week. I can't possibly notice everything that's wrong."
"But you noticed the crypt in the Conway mausoleum was open," Ray reminded him. 
"It wasn't open more than an inch. But you noticed."
That tore it. Father MacNeill's face hardened into an angry mask. "Are you 
suggesting I might have vandalized the cemetery myself?" he said in a tone 
calculated to make Ray back down.
But Ray stuck to his guns. "I'm just doing my job. I talked to Mr. Conway, just 
like you wanted me to, and now I'm talking to you just like he—" He caught 
himself too late. The priest leaped on it immediately.
"Well?" Father MacNeill demanded when Ray didn't answer his question right away. 
"Did Ted Conway tell you to investigate me or not? It's a simple enough 
question."
"I told you, Father MacNeill. I'm doing my job, and my job is to investigate 
what happened last night. It's not to decide who did it, then go about making 
everything fit."
Father MacNeill glared furiously at the policeman. What on earth could make Ray 
Beckwith, who until this very afternoon had never failed to treat him with the 
respect his position deserved, suddenly speak to him as if he were a common 
criminal?
Then he remembered glancing out the window of the parish hall just after Ted 
Conway led his family out. He'd seen Ray talking to Conway, but mostly he'd seen 
Conway talking to Ray. Talking to him the same way he'd addressed the whole town 
at the meeting? Of course. And Ray, obviously, had fallen victim to the man's 
charm as easily as everyone at the meeting had.
It's time for me to talk to that man myself, Father MacNeill decided.
"Very well," the priest said aloud. "I wouldn't want to interfere with you 
performing your job, Raymond. And I'm sure when you're done, you'll have 
discovered the truth. But I'm telling you right now—if you think anyone here had 
anything to do with this terrible criminal act, you're wrong. Perhaps mortally 
wrong."
Leaving the threat to the future of Ray Beckwith's soul hanging in the air, 
Father MacNeill turned his back on the policeman and left the room.
 
Perhaps we ought to wait until tomorrow morning," Father Bernard fretted. The 
afternoon had turned warm, but not nearly warm enough to warrant the 
perspiration dripping down his arms and back. No, his sweating wasn't caused by 
the heat, but by his nerves. And to what purpose? Tomorrow morning he could call 
Jared Conway and Luke Roberts into his office at school and get the truth out of 
them very quickly, indeed. In his office, Father Bernard was in charge. Outside 
his office, it was another matter entirely. From the time he'd first arrived at 
St. Ignatius, he'd been the leader in the school; in the rectory, however, it 
was the force of Father MacNeill's personality that held sway. Which was how it 
happened that he was now walking along Pontchartrain Street toward the Conway 
house, with sweat trickling down his back, staining the sleeves of his cassock.
"There's no reason to wait until tomorrow," Father MacNeill shot back. "If Ray 
Beckwith won't do his job, we shall simply do it for him." He paused a moment, 
gazing down the street at the Conway house. This afternoon, with the sun shining 
on its new coat of paint, the house had finally lost its look of a crumbling 
derelict. The missing slate on its roof had been replaced; somehow Ted Conway 
had even managed to find new trim to replace the fancywork that had rotted and 
broken over the years the house sat empty and untended. The last of the 
overgrowth crowding the grounds had been stripped away, and only a few strands 
of dying kudzu still clung to the great spreading magnolia from which George 
Conway had hanged himself so many years ago. Indeed, the disrepair that had 
given the house its darkly foreboding look was gone, so much so that for a 
moment Father MacNeill wondered if it was possible that everything he'd ever 
heard about the house—everything Monsignor Devlin had shown him in the Conway 
Bible—had been untrue.
But an instant later, as he started across the street, he felt it. It was as if 
an evil force was emanating from the house itself. He tried to ignore it, but 
even as he neared the door, he felt it.
A chill.
And something else.
It was as if something unseen—unseeable—was waiting for him.
Preparing to attack him.
As he drew closer, every nerve in his body began tingling, and a wave of panic 
rose inside him. He forced it down, though, and with Father Bernard trailing 
after him, made himself stride up the walk, mount the steps, and ring the bell. 
From somewhere deep inside the house a chime sounded, and then a dog began 
barking.
The priest was about to press the bell a second time when Janet Conway opened 
the door. She was bent down, clutching at the collar of a large golden 
retriever. The dog was still barking, but its tail was wagging furiously as it 
attempted to scramble out. "I'm sorry," Janet blurted, "I'm afraid—" Her words 
died on her lips as she recognized Father MacNeill. An uncertain frown appeared 
as she straightened up. "I'm afraid Scout isn't much of a watchdog," she 
finished. Tightening her grip on the dog's collar, she pulled the door open 
farther.
A wave of cold rolled through the gap. Father MacNeill took an involuntary step 
back.
"Is there something I can do for you?" Janet asked, keeping her tone neutral, 
but with difficulty.
"I wanted to have a few words with you," Father MacNeill began. "And your son, 
too." As he uttered the words, the priest felt a wave of pure emotion break over 
him, an emotion he recognized at once.
Hatred.
Something—or someone—in this house hated him with an intensity he'd never felt 
before. A hatred so strong that once again he lurched back a step. Under his 
cassock, his body was suddenly slick with sweat, and the panic he'd only barely 
managed to control a few moments ago was again threatening to overwhelm him.
Janet's frown deepened as the priest staggered backward. "Are you all right?" 
she asked anxiously, opening the door still farther. "Would you like to come in 
for a moment?"
Father MacNeill struggled to control the panic that had seized him. He tried to 
take a step forward, but could not. It was as if a wall—a physical wall—blocked 
him. When he tried to speak, his voice was constricted, as though a rope was 
tightening around his throat. "I—wanted a word with—" His breath caught for a 
moment, then he managed to finish his sentence: "—with Jared," he stammered.
Once again he tried to take a step toward the open front door, but it was no 
use.
He couldn't enter the house, couldn't so much as set foot across the threshold.
"Jared?" Janet repeated. Her eyes flicked from Father MacNeill to Father 
Bernard. Both priests were sweating, and their faces were ashen. Before she 
could say anything else, Ted appeared behind her.
"Is there something we can do for you?" he asked coldly, his eyes fixed on 
Father MacNeill.
Once again the priest took an involuntary step backward. "If we could just have 
a few words with Jared," he repeated.
Ted Conway's eyes bored into the priest's. "About?" he demanded.
"Is he here?" the priest countered, his voice trembling despite his efforts to 
control it.
Janet, still struggling with Scout, looked uncertainly to her husband. "Should I 
call him?"
Molly peeped around the edge of the door. She gazed out at the two priests, then 
suddenly began crying and reached for her father. Ted swung the little girl up 
into his arms. "We might do better to call the police," Ted said as he jiggled 
Molly and she calmed down.
Janet glanced from her husband to the priest, then back to her husband. "I—I'll 
just call Jared," she stammered. If she didn't do something to break the tension 
between Ted and the priest, one of them very well might call the police. "He 
didn't have anything to do with what happened last night, so what can it 
possibly hurt?"
Without waiting for a reply from Ted, she hurried through the dining room and 
opened the door to the basement. "Jared?" she called. "Jared!" When there was no 
response, she went down the steep flight of stairs and rapped on the closed door 
to his room. A moment later the door opened a crack, and she could smell the 
musty odor of the fumes that constantly drifted up from the sump in the middle 
of the room. "Father MacNeill and Father Bernard are here. They want to talk to 
you."
Jared's expression clouded. "What about?"
"Something happened at the cemetery last night, and for some reason Father 
MacNeill thinks you might have something to do with it. All you have to do is 
tell him you didn't, and that will be the end of it."
When Jared said nothing, Janet felt her stomach tighten. If Jared refused to 
talk to the priest, MacNeill would assume the worst. But then Jared shrugged. 
"Sure," he said. "I'll be up in a minute."
By the time Janet got back to the front door, Kim was standing at the bottom of 
the stairs. "What do they want?" she asked, anxiously eyeing the two priests who 
waited on the porch.
"It's all right," Janet assured her. "They just want to talk to Jared. They'll 
be gone in a minute."
Then Jared appeared, and as Father MacNeill looked at the boy, a single 
thought—a single concept—came into his mind.
Death.
Then, for just the barest fraction of an instant, he saw a change in Jared 
Conway's face.
The boy's eyes seemed to turn to slits, and his nostrils flared. It was more 
than an expression of anger; it was as if the boy's physiognomy had begun to 
transform itself into something inhuman.
But as quickly as it appeared, the vision was gone. It happened so fast that a 
second later the priest was no longer sure of what he'd seen.
But he could no longer look at Jared.
He shivered, trying to shake off the horrible chill that had seized him, then 
steeled himself and once more forced his gaze to meet the boy's. He spoke 
deliberately. "You took a cross from the church," he said. "You vandalized your 
uncle's tomb, and you pinned the skin of a dead cat to a tree with the cross."
"No!" Kim cried out, her voice breaking. "Don't you dare say that! Jared would 
never have hurt—"
Before she could finish, though, Jared himself spoke. "Go to hell," he said 
softly. His eyes remained on the priest, and Father MacNeill felt an outpouring 
of hatred wash over him. He felt as if he couldn't breathe, and his heart began 
to pound. "You don't know anything about what I did last night," Jared went on. 
"Stay away from here. Stay away, or maybe you'll wind up with one of your 
precious crosses shoved right up your—"
"Jared!" Janet cut in. "Don't you dare talk to Father MacNeill like that!"
"I'll talk to him any way I want!" Jared shot back.
Molly began to scream, and Janet quickly took her from Ted. "I'm sorry," she 
blurted to the two priests. "I can't imagine—"
"Don't apologize!" Jared burst out. "You said he wanted to ask me some 
questions. So, did you hear any questions?" His eyes fixed once more on the 
priest, and his voice turned venomous. "You think you know what's going on 
around here? Well, you're wrong! You don't have a clue what's going on!" He 
moved forward, raising his hand to point a finger at the priest, and Father 
MacNeill stumbled backward, barely catching himself against one of the columns 
that supported the roof. "Get away from here!" Jared screamed. "Get out of my 
house!"
Suddenly, the finger turned into a talon, and the priest jerked away as it 
slashed out at him. Once again he saw the demon he'd caught a glimpse of only 
moments ago, but this time it was leering at him, its fangs bared, its tongue 
flicking toward him like a snake's, its eyes glowing with evil fury. His hands 
clutched at the crucifix hanging from his waist, and as he raised it, he heard a 
rasping voice emerge from the throat of the beast before him.
"Next time, I'll drive the cross through your heart, priest!"
Father MacNeill's nostrils filled with the sour stench of vomit, and his own 
gorge rose. Then, with a howling cackle of harsh laughter, the vision vanished.
"Just get out of our house," he heard Jared say again. The boy turned away and 
disappeared back inside.
"I—I'm so sorry," Janet stammered. "I don't know what would make him say any of 
that. Jared isn't like that. He—He's—" She shook her head helplessly as she 
tried to soothe Molly, who was crying again.
Father MacNeill barely heard her. The cold was finally releasing him from its 
terrible grip, and his heartbeat was starting to slow. As his breathing returned 
to normal, he swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat. Finally, he was 
able to look at Ted. "I think I know what I came to find out," he said softly.
Ted's gaze never wavered. "You didn't come to find out anything. You think you 
already know. But you're wrong, Father. You don't know anything." Taking Janet's 
elbow, he gently steered her back into the house and closed the door.
Father MacNeill stared at the closed door, but instead of seeing the great oaken 
panel, he saw instead the demon face he'd beheld a moment ago. "Did you see it?" 
he asked Father Bernard. "Did you feel it?"
Father Bernard looked at him uncertainly. "I'm not sure I—"
"Evil," Father MacNeill breathed. "You can see it. You can feel it." He moved 
unsteadily off the porch and down the path to the sidewalk. Only when they had 
crossed the street and walked some distance away, did he finally turn back to 
look again at the house.
"Evil," he whispered. Then, with Father Bernard beside him, he began the long 
walk back to the rectory.
 
Ray Beckwith pulled his squad car up in front of Jake's weather-beaten cabin out 
by the lake. The rowboat was hauled up onto the narrow strip of muddy beach, and 
Jake's dog was chained outside. As the hound began baying, Jake opened the door 
and stepped out onto the porch.
"Hey there, Jake," Ray called out as he got out of the car. Jake nodded, but 
said nothing. "How's it going? Nice afternoon, huh?"
Jake's face was an impassive mask. "Don't think you came out here to talk about 
the weather. What d'you want?"
"Just got a couple of questions, that's all," Ray replied. He nervously eyed the 
hound, which was straining at the end of its chain. "Okay if I come up on the 
porch?"
Jake shrugged. "Suit yourself."
He made no move to quiet the dog, so Ray circled carefully around, staying well 
out of reach of the animal's snapping jaws. "I just wondered what you were doing 
last night, Jake," he said as he stepped up onto the porch.
"Figured," Jake replied. "You're wantin' to know if I had anything to do with 
what happened down at the cemetery last night."
"You heard about it?"
Jake shrugged and countered, "Know anybody who didn't?"
"So where were you last night?" Ray asked.
"I was out tendin' my traps. Me and Lucky took off 'bout ten. Didn't get home 
till near dawn."
Ray nodded as if he were no longer listening, but when he spoke again, he 
watched Jake's reaction to his question. "Mind if I show you something?"
"Don't mind at all," Jake replied. If he was worried, it didn't show in his 
face.
Ray went back to the squad car and returned a moment later, carrying a package 
wrapped in black plastic. As the dog strained at its chain, Ray glanced at the 
open front door of the cabin. "Maybe we should go inside?"
Jake shrugged and led Ray into the tiny cabin. The officer laid the package on 
the table and opened it, exposing the cat's hide that had been found pinned to 
the tree over Cora Conway's grave. As he pulled away the last piece of plastic, 
Ray kept his eyes on Jake Cumberland.
The trapper winced as he saw the skin.
"You've seen it before," Ray said.
Jake Cumberland's mind felt numb as he stared at the skin of the cat. He could 
still remember snatching the cat up the night the Conways moved into the house, 
skinning it on this very table, then taking the hide back to the Conways. The 
last time he'd seen the cat skin was when he'd left it nailed to the back of the 
carriage house as a warning to the Conways to go away.
They hadn't heeded his warning, but they hadn't gone to the police, either. If 
they had, Ray Beckwith would have been out here long ago. What'll I do, Mama? he 
silently asked. What should I say? And as clearly as if she'd been standing 
right there next to him, Jake heard his mama's voice: He don't know nothin', 
Jake. He don't know nothin' at all.
"Don't reckon I have seen it before," Jake said, his gaze shifting from the cat 
skin back to Ray Beckwith. "Don't reckon I've ever seen that before in my life."
The two men eyed each other, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air.
"Then you won't mind if I have a look around, will you?" Ray said softly.
Again Jake shrugged. "Don't make no never mind," he said softly. "Take a look, 
if you want."
As Jake watched, Ray Beckwith searched the cabin. He checked the garbage first, 
poking through a bucket of food scraps mixed with the entrails from some animal 
Jake had caught last night.
Nothing.
He moved on, opening and closing the few drawers and cupboards that hung around 
Jake's sink. Finally his eyes fell on the trunk.
"That locked?" he asked.
Jake shook his head. "Nothin' much in it 'cept for my mama's stuff."
"Voodoo stuff?" Ray asked.
The muscles in Jake's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, and when Ray knelt 
down to open the trunk, he made no move to stop him. Lifting the lid, Ray stared 
down at the collection of oddments that filled the compartments of the tray, 
then lifted the tray itself out of the trunk. Beneath it he saw a folded 
tablecloth, and beneath that a jumble of what looked like clothes. He was about 
to replace the tray when he suddenly changed his mind and plunged his hands into 
the tangle of material.
His fingers brushed against something.
Something furry.
He closed his fingers on the object and lifted it out of the trunk.
Rising to his feet, Ray turned to face Jake Cumberland. The trapper's eyes were 
fixed on the cat's head as if he were looking at a ghost.
"I don't know how that got in there," he said, his voice rising. "I swear I 
don't."
Ray wordlessly laid the cat head on the table next to the hide. The color match 
was perfect, as was the cut where the head had been separated from the hide. He 
faced Jake. "You want to tell me about it?" he asked.
But Jake's expression had gone as flat as when he'd first appeared on the porch. 
"Nothin' to tell," he replied. "I was out tendin' my traps last night. Anybody 
at all could've snuck in here and put that in Mama's trunk."
Ray pursed his lips, nodding. "I guess that's true," he said. "But I guess you 
could've put it in there, too, now couldn't you?" Without waiting for an answer, 
he went on, "I'm gonna have to take you in, Jake. Folks are pretty upset about 
what happened last night." But it still didn't quite make sense to Beckwith. If 
Jake had put the cat's hide on the tree, why had he been so surprised to see it? 
What else could he have expected to be confronted with? "You knew what had to be 
in that package the minute I got it out of my car, didn't you, Jake? Didn't you 
think it had to be the skin from the cemetery?"
Jake nodded. "Figured it was."
"Then why did you look surprised when you saw it?" Ray pressed. "I know you 
weren't faking it—you recognized that skin, but you weren't expecting to see 
it." Ray took a deep breath. "What's going on, Jake? Isn't there anything else 
you want to tell me?"
Jake shook his head. "Don't think so," he said softly. "Besides, who knows? If 
everyone's as upset as you say they are, maybe I'll be better off in jail."
He followed Beckwith out to the squad car. Then, as Ray was about to drive away, 
Jake Cumberland turned to take one more look at his cabin and his dog.
The dog stared back at him, sitting down and cocking its head, as if puzzled.
"Goodbye," Jake whispered.
As the car headed down the dirt road, he twisted around for one last glimpse of 
Lucky.
Jake knew he would never see his pet again.


 
 
CHAPTER 32
 
 
Janet stood back and eyed the mural critically. Maybe she shouldn't have tried 
to work tonight, but always before—back in the days when Ted was drinking—her 
painting had provided her with a refuge from the reality of her life. This 
evening, the magic hadn't worked, and she knew her lack of concentration showed 
in the results on the dining room wall. It was almost done—indeed, it might have 
been done tonight if she'd been able to stop thinking about Jared through the 
long afternoon and evening.
"Don't worry about him," Ted had advised her when she'd looked for Jared after 
the priests had left, and discovered he wasn't in the house. "He's pretty angry, 
and frankly, I don't blame him. If Father MacNeill had been accusing me, I think 
I might actually have thrown a punch at that sanctimonious bastard."
"Ted!"
"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you think MacNeill had a right to come around here 
acting like—"
"It's irrelevant what I think about Father MacNeill—I'm not his mother. But I am 
Jared's mother, and it doesn't matter how angry he was. I won't have him talking 
like that to anyone! And I won't have him simply walking in and out of the house 
anytime he feels like it, either! Especially not tonight. I don't want him out 
on Halloween! If there's any trouble—any trouble at all—everyone will blame 
Jared. I know it!"
"But there's not going to be any trouble," Ted had argued.
So far, he'd been right. As dusk came on, Janet readied a bowl of candy for the 
trick-or-treaters, but even as she placed it on a table near the front door, she 
wondered how many of the town's children would come to their house.
And how many would throw eggs, or leave burning bags of dog dung on the porch?
When there'd been no knocks at the door by eight-thirty, she understood that 
none of the children would come, but she still kept going to the window and 
peering out into the darkness, her nerves on edge.
Between trips to the window, she tried to concentrate on the mural, but failed. 
And now, as she gazed at the trompe l'oeil she'd created on the wall, she knew 
she shouldn't have tried to work at all, for the scene depicted beyond the faux 
French doors no longer seemed quite as real as it had this morning. Yet she 
couldn't put her finger on what was wrong—the perspective was right, and so was 
the lighting from the not-quite-visible moon. Maybe something in the shadowy 
areas at the far side of the garden? The clock in the living room struck eleven, 
and realizing how late it was, Janet abandoned her paints and went into the 
library. Ted was working at his desk, studying the bids for the construction of 
a reception desk in the foyer. He looked up when she came in, his smile fading 
as he read the worry in her eyes.
"It's eleven o'clock," she said. "And Jared still isn't home." Ted stood up and 
came around the desk, slipping his arms around her.
"How about if I go have a look around and see if I can spot him?"
Janet looked anxiously into his eyes. "Will you? I keep thinking I ought to call 
the police, or the hospital."
"Not yet," Ted counseled. "It's Halloween, and I'll bet whatever he's doing, 
he's not planning to be back until midnight."
"Which is exactly why I want him home," Janet said. "Of all the nights for him 
to—"
"Tell you what," Ted broke in. "I'll go out and check the pizza parlor and the 
drive-in, and swing by Luke Roberts's house. If I don't find him, we'll call the 
hospital. In fact, I'll stop by there before I come home. But I'm sure he's 
okay. Try to take it easy, at least until I get back, okay?"
Janet slipped her arms around his neck and pressed herself close to him, but 
even the strength of his body did nothing to calm her edgy nerves. "I'll try," 
she agreed. "I don't think I'll be able to, but I'll try."
"And go to bed," Ted told her. "You've been working all afternoon and all 
evening, and you're exhausted. Just relax. I'll find him."
After Ted was gone, Janet returned to the dining room, looked once more at the 
mural, then cleaned her brushes, put away her palette, and started upstairs. 
She'd just come to the landing where the great staircase split when a wave of 
apprehension broke over her.
Something was wrong.
She held still, listening.
Silence.
Yet she still felt... what?
Stop it! she commanded herself. It's nothing but nerves because it's Halloween, 
and Jared's not here, and suddenly everything seems to be going wrong again. Yet 
before she continued up the stairs, she turned to gaze down into the great empty 
expanse of the entry hall. She'd turned most of the lights down, but now, as she 
peered down into the gloom below, she wished she hadn't. Somehow the cavernous 
room seemed to have grown even larger, its corners lost in shadowed darkness.
Unbidden, the memory of the night Kim had sworn she'd seen rats in the bathroom 
came to her, and Janet shuddered as she thought of what might be lurking in the 
dark corners of the house. There's nothing, she silently repeated. Nothing. But 
she hurried her step as she went up the short flight to the mezzanine.
As she came to Molly's door, she felt it.
It was as if a cold hand had been laid on her back, stopping her short. The 
chill intensified, wrapping around her like a shawl knitted of ice.
It had to be nothing more than a draft. But the door was shut tight, and even 
the crack beneath it wasn't wide enough to permit the kind of cold she was 
feeling to seep through.
Janet reached out, her hand closing on the glass knob of the nursery door. It 
was like holding an ice crystal in her hand.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open. It creaked softly, and she heard 
Molly stir.
She stepped inside the room, and the chill lost its edge. Hurrying to the crib, 
she bent over and peered down at her sleeping child. Molly's eyes opened a 
crack, glinting in the soft moonlight that filled the room, then she went back 
to sleep. Tucking the child's blanket close around her, Janet bent lower, her 
lips brushing Molly's forehead.
Molly sighed contentedly, then curled on her side, her right thumb sliding into 
her mouth.
Satisfied that her youngest child was sleeping peacefully, Janet tiptoed out of 
the room.
The chill had vanished as quickly as it came.
In the master bedroom she undressed, put on a nightgown and robe, and slid into 
bed. Switching on the lamp on the bedside table, she picked up a magazine. Maybe 
reading would keep her worries about Jared at bay, she thought, at least until 
Ted came home.
And then she heard it.
A sobbing sound, muffled and indistinct.
At first she thought she'd imagined it, but then she heard it again.
Molly?
Throwing the light cover aside, Janet got out of bed and went to the door that 
joined the master bedroom to Molly's room. She listened, heard nothing, and 
opened the door a crack.
Silence.
She closed the door again, and went to the other door—the one that led to the 
mezzanine—and listened.
There it was again, but louder now.
Janet's pulse quickened, but she steeled herself and pulled the door open.
The sobbing increased, swelling into an anguished moan.
A knot of fear formed in her stomach, but she pulled the robe tight around her, 
tied the belt, and stepped out onto the mezzanine.
Then she heard the cry: "No!"
The single word died away as quickly as it had come, but in the instant it hung 
in the air, Janet recognized Kim's voice. Racing to the far end of the hall, she 
twisted the knob of Kim's door, threw it open, and flicked on the lights. She 
was blinded by the sudden glare for a second, then saw Kim huddled on her bed, 
sobbing. Her arms went around her daughter, pulling her close.
"It's all right, Kimmie," she whispered, using the nickname her older daughter 
had shed five years ago, on her tenth birthday. "It was only a bad dream. I'm 
here."
"It was Jared," Kim cried. "Mom, it was awful! He—He killed Scout!"
"No," Janet soothed. "It was just a dream, Kim. It didn't really happen."
"What's doing it, Mom?" Kim sobbed. "What's making me have these terrible dreams 
about Jared?"
"What dreams?'' Janet asked. Settling herself onto the bed next to Kim, she 
gently eased her daughter's head onto her lap. "Honey, what have you been 
dreaming?"
Kim hesitated, recalling images from her nightmares. Then, slowly, she began 
talking, telling her mother about the strange things she'd seen in her dreams, 
the terrible things she'd witnessed Jared doing. "But they weren't like real 
dreams at all, Mom," she finished. "They were so real, it seemed like it was all 
really happening! But it couldn't have happened, could it?"
"No, of course not," Janet soothed, stroking Kim's hair. "I know dreams can seem 
real, but they aren't. And you mustn't let them frighten you."
Sniffling, Kim sat up and wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown. 
"It's just that Jared's changed," she said. "He isn't anything like he used to 
be." She looked bleakly at her mother. "You know how I used to know what Jared 
was thinking? What he was feeling?"
Janet smiled. "The Twin Thing."
Kim nodded. "It was like that tonight. It was like I knew exactly what he was 
doing. I could see it as clearly as if I were standing right next to him. He—He 
had a knife, and Scout was lying on a table, and—" Her voice broke into a 
choking sob.
"But it wasn't real," Janet assured her once again. She got off the bed and 
gently pulled Kim to her feet. "Come on. "I'll show you. We'll go down to the 
kitchen and get Scout, and he can come up and sleep with you tonight. Okay?"
Nodding, Kim let Janet lead her out of her room, down the stairs, and into the 
kitchen.
"Scout?" Janet called out softly.
There was no welcoming thump of the big dog's tail banging against the wall as 
he wagged it. There was only silence.
Janet switched on the light.
Scout's bed was empty.
She frowned, trying to remember when she'd last seen the dog.
She wasn't sure. "He has to be here somewhere," she said. "Come on."
But fifteen minutes later, Janet and Kim both knew that Scout was gone. Nor did 
he come when they opened the back door and called him.
"It doesn't mean anything," Janet insisted as she and Kim climbed the stairs 
back up to the second floor. "He might have gone off with Jared this afternoon."
"He doesn't even like Jared anymore," Kim said, her voice wavering. "That's why 
he sleeps in the kitchen now!"
"Then maybe he went with your father," Janet said. But she'd watched Ted leave, 
and hadn't seen the dog go with him.
But there was something else that could have happened, something that she could 
see had already occurred to Kim: If Scout had vanished into the woods the same 
way Muffin had on the night they'd moved into the house, would he be found the 
same way the cat had?
Just the thought of it made Janet shudder, and as if by mutual consent, neither 
she nor Kim even mentioned that possibility.
 
The cabin lay dark and hushed beneath the pale silvery light of the moon. Jake 
Cumberland's hound was perfectly still, flattened against the ground beneath the 
cabin's floor. He'd neither moved nor made a single sound since he'd first 
scented the two figures stealing through the darkness toward the house. Had the 
chain not restrained him, he would have fled away through the covering darkness 
rather than slunk into the meager shelter provided by his master's house.
The night prowlers had gone silent; neither owls nor bats swooped and flitted in 
search of prey, for every creature they might have sought had vanished into 
burrows beneath the ground or hollows inside the trees.
No fish jumped in the lake, no frogs croaked along its bank; even the insects 
they hunted had ceased their nightly feeding and mating.
The quiet of death had fallen over the night. A dark cloud scudded over the moon 
as if to protect even it from bearing witness to the ceremony taking place 
within the cabin's walls, where five flickering candles on the table struggled 
to hold back the descending darkness.
Luke Roberts stood next to Jared Conway, his unblinking eyes fixed on the object 
that lay on the table in the center of the pentagram formed by the candles.
In his right hand, Jared held a knife—its cutting edge honed to razor sharpness 
by Jake Cumberland's own whetstone and strop. As he clutched its leather-bound 
haft, the instrument itself seemed to speak to him, whispering of the creatures 
it had disemboweled, the hides it had slit, the flesh it had slashed. Jared 
lowered the knife toward the offering on the table, but just before he drove the 
blade into the creature's breast, he gazed one last time into its eyes.
"Don't," he heard his sister's voice whisper inside his head. "Oh, God, Jared, 
please don't."
Jared hesitated as Kim's voice, only dimly heard, tugged at him, tried to 
restrain him. It was as if he stood on the edge of a dark and fathomless abyss, 
feeling inexorably drawn to it. Every fiber of his being wanted to step over the 
edge, to drop into the darkness below, plunge deep into whatever lay within the 
blackness that beckoned to him.
And only Kim's dimly heard voice held him back.
"Don't," her voice whispered again. "Please, Jared. Don't."
Jared's eyes moved from the body of the creature to its head.
Scout lay on his back, his legs splayed wide as if to expose his belly in 
submission to some far stronger creature than he. His head lolled to one side. 
His mouth lay open, his tongue hung out.
And one of his eyes—his soft, trusting brown eyes—seemed to gaze up at Jared, as 
if joining in Kim's whispered plea.
But it was already too late. He plunged the knife into the dog's heart and 
Scout's life ended with a silent spasm.
Now all that remained was to carry out the ceremony, to offer his pet to his new 
master.
Pulling the knife from the dog's corpse, he lowered its point until it just 
grazed the skin of Scout's belly.
Yet still he hesitated, looking one last time into Scout's eyes, hesitating as, 
fleetingly, a brief, flickering doubt entered his mind, as though something 
within was telling him to step back—step back from the edge of the abyss.
Too late. With Kim's pleading voice fading away, he felt himself slide into the 
darkness. As Luke watched, Jared slipped the point of the knife through the 
retriever's hide and ran its edge up the center of its belly and chest to its 
throat. Four more slits ran up each leg, and then he began peeling the skin away 
from the flesh below. He worked quickly, the blade seeming to guide his hands as 
if the knife itself had performed the work so often, it needed no aid from him.
Deftly, he sliced through the abdominal muscles, then cut away the creature's 
entrails.
He cut through the rib cage and laid open the animal's chest, exposing the lungs 
and heart.
Raising the knife high, Jared muttered a dedication of the blood offering he was 
about to make, then plunged the knife deep into the heart. Dropping the knife, 
he plunged his hands into the blood that oozed from the punctured heart into the 
chest cavity. With reddened fingers he anointed Luke's forehead.
Plunging his hands again into the gore within the slaughtered dog, he moved away 
from the table and began tracing patterns on the cabin's wall, intricate designs 
that rose out of some hidden place in his subconscious, flowing from his 
bloodied fingertips onto the ancient wood. And as he etched the design in blood, 
muttered imprecations—unintelligible curses condemning the man who had lived his 
entire life within the cabin's shelter—flowed from his lips.
 
Jake Cumberland's eyes flicked open in the darkness of his cell. He felt 
disoriented for a moment, but slowly his mind cleared and he remembered where he 
was. And why.
He wasn't going to get out of jail—he already knew that. His mama had explained 
it to him when he was small: "Don't ever do nothin' that'll let 'em put you in 
jail," she'd told him. "'Cause once they gets you in, they ain't gonna be 
lettin' you out again. Not around here. Onliest way they ever gonna let you out 
is at the end of a rope. That's what they did to my daddy, Jake, when I was no 
bigger'n you. They came for him one night, and took him down and tied a rope 
around his neck, and after that I didn't have a daddy no more. So you watch 
yourself, hear?"
Now, in the blackness of the Halloween midnight, he heard another voice. An evil 
voice, whispering inside his head.
Do it yourself, Jake, the voice said. Don't wait, Jake. Don't wait for morning. 
Do it now.
At first Jake tried to ignore the voice, but it wouldn't be put off, and as the 
seconds ticked by and turned into minutes, it grew stronger, more insistent.
Do it, Jake. You know you want to. Come on, Jake. Now, Jake. Now!
The voice took on a mesmerizing rhythm. Without thinking about it, Jake rose 
from the cot on which he lay and took off his pants. He began ripping at the 
denim, tearing the legs into strips.
You know what to do, Jake, the voice whispered. Just do it. Do it now.
Jake began braiding the strips of denim together, his fingers working the 
material as easily as they knotted together the twine for his snares. Soon he 
was done.
The rope was nearly six feet long, plenty long enough to do what had to be done.
Now, Jake, the voice whispered. Do it now.
Jake tied one end of the braided rope around his neck, then stood on the cot and 
reached up to the sprinkler pipe that ran across the cell's width.
He tied the free end of the rope around it and tested the knot. It was solid; it 
would hold.
Die! the voice commanded. Die right now!
Without another thought, Jake Cumberland stepped off the edge of the cot. He 
dropped a foot, and then the rope jerked tight.
His neck did not break, but the loop around his neck dug deep, closing his 
windpipe.
His body twitched, his feet kicked out.
Then, in the darkness, he saw his mama. She was at the end of a tunnel, and her 
hand was held out to him. As Jake began hurrying through the darkness toward his 
mother, the voice faded away. Jake Cumberland was dead.
 
His incantations done, the inscriptions on the walls complete, Jared Conway 
severed the dog's head from the carcass and placed it inside the trunk where the 
night before he had hidden the head of the cat.
He cleaned the hide of the last remnants of flesh, rolled it tight, and slipped 
it into a plastic sack. As Luke carried the flesh, bones, and entrails outside, 
Jared blew the candles out, one by one. As the last candle flickered out, the 
room plunged into utter blackness.
Taking the skin of the slaughtered dog with him, Jared left the cabin, and as he 
and Luke disappeared into the darkness, the life of the night began again.
A trout broke the surface of the lake, snapping at a water bug.
An owl swept down from the trees, its talons closing on a mouse that had only a 
moment ago ventured forth from its burrow.
Bats flitted through the night sky, feeding on the gnats and mosquitoes that 
rose into the air from their hidden shelters in the grass and leaves.
And Jake Cumberland's hound crept out from beneath the cabin, sniffed at the 
pile of entrails left at the foot of the steps, and began devouring the 
unexpected feast.
 
Ted Conway slumped behind the wheel of the Toyota, waiting in the darkness. 
After leaving the house, he'd done exactly as he'd promised Janet he would—he'd 
driven past the Roberts' house. It was dark and quiet.
He cruised around the square, slowing as he passed the pizza parlor but barely 
glancing through its brightly lit windows, certain the boys would not be there.
Then he came back, parking the car in the darkness well away from the house, 
waiting.
He heard the night fall silent, saw the cloud slide over the moon. Still he 
waited, knowing that soon his vigil would end.
Finally the sky cleared and the night sounds picked up again. Ted straightened 
in the seat, his senses sharpening, his eyes scanning the edge of the forest 
that lay beyond the grounds. The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes. Still 
he waited, until his patience was rewarded by a flicker of movement within the 
shadows. Two figures emerged from the trees and slipped as silently as phantoms 
across the grounds toward the house. Starting the engine of the Toyota, Ted 
shifted it into gear, switched on, the headlights, and drove down the street to 
the driveway. He pulled close to the carriage house, then shut off the engine, 
got out, and slammed the car door behind him. Entering the house through the 
back door, he paused at the door to the basement, listening.
The sound of discordant music boiled up the stairs and filtered through the 
door.
Satisfied, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and went into the master 
bedroom where his wife and older daughter waited.
"Found him," he said, smiling at the relief that came into Janet's face. "He was 
at the pizza parlor with Luke. I dropped Luke off at his house and had a long 
talk with Jared on the way home."
"I think maybe I'll have a talk with him myself," Janet said, starting to get 
out of bed.
"And I think maybe you should just stay where you are," Ted told her, gently 
pushing her back into the bed. "Believe me, he's stinging bad enough after what 
I had to say to him. Anything you want to add can wait until morning." He 
shifted his attention to Kim. "And tomorrow's a school day. You should be in 
bed, too."
"What about Scout?" Kim asked. "Was he with Jared?"
Ted's eyes clouded. "I don't think so. Isn't he here?"
Kim shook her head.
"Well, if he's not back by morning, I'll go look for him, too. He's probably 
just out doing what dogs do."
"But after what happened to Muffin—" Kim began, but her father didn't let her 
finish.
"It's not the same thing," he assured her. "But Scout will be back—I guarantee 
it. And now it's time for you to go to bed."
Kissing his daughter good night, Ted watched her circle around the landing and 
disappear back into her room. When her door was closed, he went back into the 
bedroom, undressed, and got into bed next to Janet.
"You okay now?" he whispered, taking her in his arms and nuzzling at her ear.
Janet pulled away from him. Should she tell him about the terrible cold that had 
come over her in front of Molly's room? Or would he just laugh at her, and 
accuse her of listening to the ghost stories people told about the house? And 
what about Kim's nightmares?
Feeling the tension in her body, Ted propped himself up on one elbow. 
"Something's wrong," he said. "Tell me about it."
Still Janet hesitated, not sure where to begin. Ted gently turned her face so 
she was looking into his eyes.
"Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me what's wrong."
"It was when I was coming up the stairs," Janet began. But as she was about to 
describe the chill she'd felt, she realized how foolish it would sound. In fact, 
now that he was back and caressing her cheek, it seemed that nothing unusual had 
occurred.
She'd felt a draft, which she exaggerated in her own mind simply because of the 
vastness of the house and the lateness of the hour.
Kim had had a nightmare.
And Scout, like any normal dog, had taken off into the night.
The important thing was that Jared was safely back home, and so was Ted. She 
turned to face him, snuggling close. "It's all right," she murmured. "Nothing 
happened at all."
Then, as Ted's fingers crept beneath her nightgown and began tracing patterns on 
her naked skin, the last of the fears she'd felt that night drained away.
 
It was nearing midnight, but neither Monsignor Devlin nor Father MacNeill was 
ready to give up their vigil.
"It's Halloween," Father MacNeill had said as they'd eaten their supper earlier. 
"And something's going to happen. I can feel it."
"Perhaps you're wrong," the older priest had cautioned. "Perhaps we're both 
wrong." He rested a bony hand on the old Bible that Cora Conway had entrusted to 
him the day she died. "Perhaps none of this means anything. Perhaps it's nothing 
more than the ramblings of unhappy women."
"You know that isn't true," Father MacNeill replied. "And we haven't read it 
all. If we could find the missing pages—"
"They're gone," Devlin sighed. "I've already examined every page of the Bible 
twice. They simply aren't there."
After their evening prayers, the two priests had retired to Monsignor Devlin's 
small room, where Father MacNeill had searched the entire Bible one more time, 
carefully turning each page. He could almost feel the missing leaves. So certain 
was he that he would find them that it wasn't until he'd turned the very last 
page and even carefully examined the binding itself that he made himself admit 
they weren't there. Sighing heavily, he pushed the Bible away, as if to distance 
himself from the source of his disappointment. As the book slid across the 
table, there was a crash as the small box behind it fell to the floor.
His disappointment giving way to regret, he reached down and picked up the music 
box. "I'm so sorry," he said. "How could I have been so clumsy?"
"It's all right," Monsignor Devlin assured him. "It doesn't work anyway."
Frowning, Father MacNeill opened the lid of the music box. There was a faint 
click as the mechanism engaged, but no music played.
"When I bought it, it played a truly frightening rendition of Ave Maria." Devlin 
chuckled. "I suspect Cora broke it deliberately."
"Cora?" MacNeill echoed. "Cora Conway?" When Devlin nodded, Father MacNeill 
turned the box over and examined its bottom. A winding key protruded through a 
brass plate held in place by four small screws. His pulse quickening, the priest 
hurried downstairs, returning a few minutes later with a battered metal tool 
box. Sorting through the jumble inside, he finally came up with a screwdriver 
small enough to fit the screws on the music box.
A minute later he carefully lifted the brass plate. And there, carefully folded, 
were the missing pages. His hands trembling, he unfolded them, smoothed them on 
the table, and began reading Loretta Villiers Conway's perfect script....
 
October 31, 1875—
It is my wedding day.
I had not expected ever to have a wedding, so ill have I been, and even today I 
am not certain it would not have been better for me to have died. But I know I 
must marry Monsignor Melchior Conway, or suffer eternal damnation, for that is 
what both my father and the Monsignor have told me.
The Monsignor came from Philadelphia three months ago. Our own priest asked him 
to come, so certain was he that I was possessed of the  Devil I do not remember 
the Monsignor's arrival, for it was during the time when I was confined to my 
bedroom, of which I remember very little. What I do remember I now record here.
I was in the cellar of our little house when I noticed a strange mist rising 
from a hole in the earthen floor. As I breathed the mist, everything in the 
basement changed.
All because golden, and images appeared before me—beautiful images. A being 
appeared, and touched me in a way I should not have permitted.
I became ill the next day, and cannot bring myself to write the things they say 
I have done. They say I have been a wanton, and committed mortal sins, which is 
why the Monsignor came from Philadelphia.
At our first meeting—of which I have no clear memory—I took the Monsignor to the 
place where my illness began. I do not know how long we prayed in the cellar 
that night, but it cannot have been long enough, for the Monsignor insisted we 
go back the next night, and the night after that.
 
The silence in the little room on the second floor of the rectory was complete 
as Father MacNeill finished reading the pages that Cora Conway had cut from the 
Bible and hidden in the music box. But why these pages?
 
My illness soon began to retreat in response to the Monsignor's prayers, but I 
am told that my health now depends on him. He will give up his religious 
vocation to marry me, which Father says I must do, though to marry a priest 
seems to me the gravest of blasphemies.
 
There was an inch of space in which nothing had been written, and then Loretta 
Villiers Conway's hand began again:
It is done.
I am married to the Monsignor by his own authority, for neither he nor Father 
were able to prevail upon our priest to marry us. Sister Mary Anthony came to 
our house after supper, and though she would not set foot indoors, she gave me a 
gift of two small crosses made of pure gold, which she said could protect me, 
and one of my children as well. Then she begged God to forgive me my sins.
I suspect that He will not.
Nor will He forgive Monsignor Melchior, for I believe I know the truth of what 
lies in our cellar. It is Evil itself that resides deep within that hole, and I 
fear the Monsignor has become its Servant.
I have this day married the right hand of Evil.
The Monsignor has ceded himself—and the eldest son of all the generations to 
come—to the Evil that dwells beneath this house, and I know we shall prosper on 
this Earth, but I know also that we are damned—damned for all Eternity.
Why hadn't Cora cut from the Bible all the pages detailing the sins of the 
Conways? Even as he posed the question in his mind, he knew the answer: In 
Cora's mind, it was only this darkest secret that must be kept; all the rest 
might have been attributed to madness, but these first entries—the ones she'd 
hidden—proved the damnation of all the Conways' souls.
It was finally Monsignor Devlin who spoke. His voice quavered, as if the burdens 
of his years had suddenly grown heavier. "An exorcism," he breathed. "So that's 
how it started—an exorcism."
"A failed exorcism," Father MacNeill corrected. "He came to banish Satan, but 
gave up his soul instead."
Through the open window, the bells of St. Ignatius began to toll the darkest 
hour. Both priests shivered. An evil had been unleashed on St. Albans on a 
Halloween more than a century earlier. Now, on this Halloween midnight, had it 
spread over the town once more?
 
"Kimmie? Kimmie, come on!"
It was Jared's voice calling her name, and at first she didn't see him. Then she 
spotted him, fifty yards ahead of her, beckoning to her. They were in a meadow, 
and he was running toward a lake, and in a few seconds they would both plunge 
into the cool water, popping through the surface a moment later, laughing and 
splashing. She broke into a run, doing her best to keep up with him, but Jared 
was faster than she, and plunged into the lake before she could even get to the 
shore. She stopped at the edge of the water, watching to see where he'd come up, 
her eyes looking first one way, then another.
But he didn't come up.
"Jared!" she called out. Then again: "Jared?" When her brother still didn't 
appear, she ran a few yards along the lake's edge, first in one direction, then 
in the other.
"Mommy!" she called out. "Mommy, help! Jared's gone!"
But when she looked around, her mother was nowhere to be seen.
Then, as clearly as if she'd heard him shouting the words, Jared called to her 
again.
"Help me, Kimmie! Help me!"
With no thought but to save her brother, Kim dove into the water, plunging deep 
as she searched for her drowning twin. At first she saw nothing except sunlight 
filtering through the clear water, but as she plunged deeper and the light 
faded, she caught a glimpse of him.
He was far below, looking up at her, his hand extended as if reaching out to 
her. But as she watched, he sank deeper into the watery darkness, until she 
could hardly see him. She tried to dive faster, kicking as hard as she could, 
but no matter how fast she swam downward, Jared was always just a little beyond 
her reach. The water seemed to be turning to jelly around her now, and she 
struggled against it, straining to reach her brother before he disappeared 
completely. Then, for one fleeting moment, the tips of her fingers touched his. 
She tried to clutch at his hand, but he fell away into the blackness, 
disappearing.
Kim stopped swimming and let herself drift in the darkness. A great emptiness—as 
dark as the water surrounding her—yawned within her, and as she slowly let 
herself sink into it, the pain of not having been able to save her brother began 
to ease.
The darkness deepened.
Then, somewhere in the darkness, a point of light appeared. As Kim watched it, 
it slowly grew brighter. At first she thought she must be floating back toward 
the lake's surface. But when she finally opened her eyes, the water was gone.
She was back in the great cathedral-like chamber, which had somehow grown even 
vaster than before. Tonight there was no trace of the shimmering light she'd 
first seen here; tonight she felt as if she were utterly lost in the shadows 
that filled the huge space. Then, far ahead of her, she once again beheld the 
inverted cross, suspended in the shadowy light as if by some unseen force. 
Mesmerized, Kim moved toward it. As she did, the candles spread on the altar 
beneath the cross burst into flame. As the light grew, Kim saw the eviscerated 
body of an animal on the altar, a dagger plunged through its heart, its blood 
dripping into a silver chalice.
Two robed and hooded figures appeared at either end of the altar. They moved 
closer together, and for a moment her view of the altar—and the cross—was 
blocked. The two figures bent over, and a terrible feeling of apprehension came 
over Kim.
She tried to back away, but some unseen force held her in place.
Then the two hooded figures stepped aside and she once again beheld the cross.
A tiny figure, its face contorted in pain, was affixed to it.
Silver spikes had been driven through each wrist.
A third punctured the child's feet.
Blood dripped from a wound in the child's chest, oozing down the neck and face 
to mat into the already reddish hair.
Molly!
Kim screamed out loud, and in an instant that seared itself into her mind, the 
two robed figures whirled around.
Her father and her brother stood glowering at her, their faces contorted with 
hatred.
She screamed again, and jerked awake.
For a moment her head swam with the dying remnants of the dream. Her heart was 
pounding so hard she could hear it, and her skin was clammy with sweat.
A dream! she told herself. It was only a dream!
She eased herself back down onto the pillow and tried to erase the last 
fragments of the dream from her memory, but the faces of her father and brother 
kept looming up in the darkness, leering at her, almost taunting her.
She turned over in bed, but still the dream stayed with her, only now it was the 
twisted face of her baby sister she saw, hanging upside down from the inverted 
cross, impaled by the nails, her life slowly ebbing away.
Then the earlier dream came back to haunt her, the dream in which she'd seen 
Jared killing Scout.
She had convinced herself that it, too, had been just a dream. But when they'd 
gone to find Scout, he'd vanished from the house.
As the first faint light of dawn etched the sky with silver, Kim got up from her 
bed and tiptoed out onto the landing. The great house lay silent around her, and 
as she made her way around to Molly's room, she had the eerie feeling of unseen 
eyes following her.
She paused before the door, shivering in a sudden chill that seemed to come out 
of nowhere.
Finally, her hand trembling, she reached for the knob, twisted it, and slowly 
pushed the door open.
The chill reached deeper into her, touching her soul.
She stepped into the room, straining to catch a glimpse of her sister in the 
gray light of dawn, but all she saw was a mass of rumpled bedding.
"Molly?" she whispered, edging closer to the child's crib. "Molly? Are you 
okay?"
There was no movement at all from the crib. Kim, standing by its side, looked 
down at the tangle of sheets and blankets. Please, she prayed silently. Please 
let her be all right.
She reached out, took the edge of the blanket, and pulled it aside.
And there lay Molly, sound asleep, her thumb tucked in her mouth.
Choking back a sob of relief, Kim bent down, gently kissed the sleeping child, 
and tucked the blanket back around her.


 
 
All Soul's Day    


 
 
CHAPTER 33
 
 
Jake Cumberland's cabin looked peaceful enough when Corinne Beckwith pulled into 
the little clearing next to the lake. Jake's hound was lying in the dust, and he 
sat up when she got out of the car, cocking his head as if trying to decide 
whether to sound an alarm. "It's okay," she said soothingly, moving slowly 
toward the dog with one hand extended. The dog stood up and edged closer to her, 
and Corinne made certain to stay just beyond the reach of his chain until he'd 
sniffed at her fingers, whimpered softly, then extended his tongue to have a 
lick. "Good boy," she said, bending down to scratch his ears as she gazed at the 
house. "I bet you're hungry, aren't you? Well, that's why I'm here. First we'll 
find you something to eat, then we'll start thinking about where you're going to 
live from now on." Though Corinne was certain the dog couldn't understand her 
words, something in her tone must have told him that his master wasn't coming 
back. Whining, the dog dropped down into the dust, and Corinne crouched beside 
him. "I know, boy," she said, stroking his coat. "You're going to miss him, 
aren't you?" Patting him once more, she stood up and turned toward the cabin. It 
looked utterly deserted this morning, as if it, too, knew that its sole occupant 
had abandoned it forever. Corinne took a step toward it, but then the dog was 
back on its feet, growling.
"Are you going to let me take a look, or are you going to try to rip my throat 
out?" Corinne asked. As she reached out to him again, the dog pressed himself 
against her legs, looked at her through bloodshot eyes. "Guess you're not going 
for the throat, huh?"
Corinne straightened up once more and continued toward the cabin, and the hound 
followed her. When she moved up onto the porch, though, he yelped, and when she 
reached for the doorknob, he barked loudly.
Corinne eyed the dog speculatively, uncertain whether the bark was a warning or 
the animal was merely eager to get inside. Unwilling to risk arousing the dog's 
guarding instincts, she moved to the window, shaded her eyes against the glare 
of, the morning sun, and peered inside. As her eyes adjusted to the relative 
gloom inside, she saw the strange designs that had been smeared on the cabin's 
wall with some kind of rust-colored paint.
Paint ... or blood?
Feeling queasy, Corinne stepped back from the window. Her hand dropped to the 
hound's head. "Who was it?" she asked. "Who was here?" She stepped off the 
porch, fished in her purse for her cell phone, and a moment later was talking to 
her husband. "You better get out here, Ray," she told him. "Something terrible 
went on in Jake's cabin last night, and after what happened in the jail, no 
one's going to be able to blame this mess on him."
 
Twenty minutes later Ray Beckwith stood with Corinne in the center of Jake's 
shack, his expression grim as he studied the strange and bloody symbols that 
stained the walls.
"Looks to me like someone was out here doin' more of Jake's voodoo stuff last 
night."
Corinne nodded. The first thought that had come to her when Ray had told her of 
Jake's death was that someone had turned Jake's own magic against him. Though 
Corinne had no more faith in voodoo than in any other religion, she knew that 
for followers of voodoo, the knowledge that someone was casting a spell had 
sometimes resulted in the sickness—or even death—of the victim.
The power of suggestion: if you believed you could be killed by magic, then you 
could be.
And if someone had let Jake know what kind of ritual would be performed, and 
when...
Corinne could almost see Jake awaiting the hour in his cell, feeling the power 
of the voodoo "magic" surround him. His belief alone could have made him hang 
himself. But as she scanned the pentagrams and symbols on the walls, her eyes 
kept going back to a cross whose transverse bar was far below the midpoint.
A Christian cross, inverted?
"What about Satanists?" she asked.
Ray Beckwith groaned out loud. "Now you're starting to sound like Father 
MacNeill. Next thing, you'll be trying to blame this on the Conways, just like 
he did with the cemetery yesterday morning." He started toward the door.
"Where are you going? You haven't even searched the cabin."
"Gonna get the dog," Beckwith replied. "Maybe he can lead us right to whoever 
was here."
The hound made no objection as Beckwith replaced its chain a few minutes later 
with a strong leather lead he kept in the trunk of the squad car. But when he 
tried to coax it into the cabin, the animal turned recalcitrant, pulling and 
tugging at the leash as Beckwith tried to pull him through the front door. When 
the officer kept tugging, the hound snarled and snapped at him.
"Jesus!" Beckwith snatched his hand back just in time and glared at the dog. 
"What's going on with him?" he asked. "He musta been in here a million times 
before."
"Well, he's not going in now, and he didn't want me going in earlier," Corinne 
told him. "The question is, what does that mean?"
Beckwith scowled. "It means Jake had a stupid, stubborn good-for-nothin' animal 
here, that's what it means!"
"Or it means whatever happened in here last night scared him so much he doesn't 
want to go near the cabin," Corinne said.
Rechaining the dog, they went back into the cabin. As Corinne watched, her 
husband repeated the search he'd carried out the afternoon before.
Two minutes after he began, he lifted Scout's severed head from the trunk. "Oh, 
Jesus," he whispered. "Look at this."
As Corinne Beckwith's stomach threatened to betray her, she forced herself to 
look at the grisly object in her husband's hands. "I know that dog," she 
whispered. "It belonged to Jared Conway."


 
 
CHAPTER 34
 
 
Morning did nothing to dispel the terrors Kim had felt the night before. As she 
came downstairs, fingers of panic still reached out to her. Although everything 
in the cavernous entry hall looked exactly as it had yesterday, it felt 
strangely ominous even in the morning light. Pausing at the bottom of the 
stairs, Kim found herself shivering, as if the terrible chill she'd felt at the 
door to Molly's room as dawn was beginning to break had now spread down the 
stairs. As she passed through the dining room on her way to the kitchen, she 
stopped to gaze at the trompe l'oeil mural her mother was painting on the wall 
opposite the windows. The perfectly executed French doors, the faux terrace, 
even the balustrade outside, looked exactly as they had yesterday afternoon, but 
now, with the sun flooding in the windows opposite, it looked as if her mother 
had done something to the garden beyond the terrace. Kim studied the mural for 
several minutes before she realized what had changed.
The garden seemed to be dying. The flowers that appeared so perfectly fresh and 
lifelike only yesterday looked this morning as if they were starting to wilt, 
and the green of the trees seemed to have faded, as if the painted foliage were 
somehow starting to turn brown. But why would her mother have done it?
Kim moved closer to the wall, to see if some kind of wash had been applied to 
the whole garden, but it was almost as if each flower, each leaf, had taken on a 
faintly unhealthy cast. The mural, which a day earlier had given the whole 
dining room a bright and cheerful feel, now sent a somber mood over the room.
Kim turned away.
As she pushed open the kitchen door, she unconsciously braced herself against 
Scout's enthusiastic morning greeting. In the fraction of a second it took for 
her to remember that Scout was no longer in the house, the strange feeling of 
unease she'd had as she came downstairs notched up. Turning on the stove and 
setting a pot of water to boil, she went to the back door, stepped out onto the 
porch, and called out to Scout. As she waited for the dog to respond, she sucked 
the morning air deep into her lungs, and felt some of the tension that had been 
building inside her start to abate. She called out to Scout three more times, 
and when the big retriever didn't appear, she went back into the house.
Her father and brother were in the kitchen now, standing at the counter, their 
backs to her. The memory of the two robed and hooded figures she'd seen in her 
dream came to mind, and when first Jared, then her father, turned to look at 
her, another memory snapped into focus. The expression she'd seen in their 
eyes—the terrible look of hatred—recurred to her.
The terrible vision dissolved as quickly as it had come as she realized that the 
"hooded robes" of her dream were this morning nothing more than the same 
bathrobes they wore practically every day.
"Where's Mom?" she asked.
"I told her to sleep in this morning," her father said.
Had a look passed between her father and Jared? She wasn't sure. She cocked her 
head, frowning uncertainly. "Is something going on? Something I don't know 
about?"
This time she was certain that Jared glanced at his father. Then he grinned at 
her. Not the friendly grin he used to give her, when they'd still been so close. 
This morning the grin had an edge to it.
"Going paranoid on us?" he asked.
Kim felt herself blushing. "I'm not paranoid," she said, too quickly. "I just—I 
don't know. Something just doesn't feel right."
"That sure sounds like paranoia to me, doesn't it, Dad?"
Kim's unease hardened into anger. Since when had Jared and their father gotten 
so buddy-buddy? Especially since Jared was supposed to have gotten a chewing out 
last night!
"I better go up and get Molly," she said, suddenly wanting to get out of the 
kitchen.
"She's still asleep, too," Ted said softly, in a tone of voice that stopped Kim 
short. She turned to look at him. Her father's eyes locked on hers. "You'd 
better just get ready for school, Kim," he said quietly. "If you don't hurry, 
you're going to be late." His eyes held hers a few seconds longer, then he 
smiled. "All right?"
Kim nodded silently and left the kitchen. As she went upstairs to get dressed, 
she had a vague feeling that there was something else she'd intended to do 
before she realized how late it was and that if she didn't hurry she wouldn't 
make it to school by the first bell. She dressed, still trying to remember what 
it might have been, but as she combed her hair, then gathered up her books, she 
decided that whatever it was, it couldn't have been important.
It wasn't until she was a block away from the house that she remembered Molly 
and the dream she'd had last night. She wondered if maybe she shouldn't go back 
to the house.
Just to be sure.
But if she did, she would surely be late to her first class.
And besides, the dream she'd had last night was only that—just a dream.
Wasn't it?
 
The two cars pulled to a stop in front of the Conway house, and both drivers got 
out. But as Corinne Beckwith started to follow Ray across the lawn toward the 
columned porch fronting the house, her husband held up a hand as if he were 
controlling traffic. "This isn't exactly a committee we've got here," he 
reminded his wife. "I think I can deal with this one alone, okay?"
Corinne glared at Ray. "If I hadn't gone out to Jake's to take care of that dog 
this morn—" she began. But her words died on her lips because something seemed 
off kilter. It was as if something were emanating from the house, something that 
left her feeling she didn't want to be here, after all. It's just the light, she 
told herself, peering into the shadows that darkened the porch. But it wasn't 
just a trick of the light; it was as if the entire house had taken on a dark 
cast; as if it held something unknown that even the structure's massive walls 
couldn't quite contain.
Why would anyone want to live in this place? Corinne wondered as she let her 
husband continue—alone, and with no further argument—up to the porch. For some 
reason, just looking at the Conway house this morning made her shudder.
 
Ray Beckwith pressed the doorbell, and heard the sound of a muffled chime drift 
through the thick wood of the doors. He shifted his weight nervously from one 
foot to the other as he waited for the door to open. As the edginess that had 
come over him as he approached the house became more pronounced, he reminded 
himself that he was here on legitimate business; he had no cause to feel uneasy.
And yet, inexplicably, he did.
So far, he hadn't had a bad experience with Ted Conway. Sure, the man had been a 
little angry yesterday, but why wouldn't he be, with Father MacNeill practically 
accusing his son of defacing his own uncle's tomb? And when he'd gone out to 
Jake Cumberland's, Conway's idea had panned out, though he did still have some 
doubts about that. Now that Jake was dead, however, and if Corinne was right 
that the dog whose head they'd just found had belonged to the Conway boy—
His thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and Ted Conway appeared. For 
a moment Ray had the feeling Conway hadn't recognized him, but then the man 
smiled.
A smile that lit up his face, and made Ray Beckwith's nervousness evaporate.
"Hey, Ray, how's it going?" he asked. Then he spotted Corinne standing on the 
sidewalk. "May I assume by the presence of the press that this isn't purely a 
social call? Don't tell me you and Corinne have let Father MacNeill convince you 
that Jared's up to something!" The dazzling smile returned. Then he winked, as 
if the two of them were sharing a secret. "Or is it me again? Please don't tell 
me someone's cooked up some list of ordinances I've already violated. We're not 
even open yet! Won't be for months."
"Actually, it's a little more serious than that. Somethin' happened out at Jake 
Cumberland's last night." He told Ted what had happened to Jake last night, and 
what he and Corinne Beckwith had found in Jake's trunk.
"And when Corinne said you have a golden retriever, I figured I better come over 
here."
Ted Conway gazed steadily at the policeman. "So you think Jared took his own dog 
out to Jake's place and killed it." He shook his head almost sadly. "You sure 
you haven't been talking to Father MacNeill? It sounds exactly like the kind of 
thing he'd come up with." His voice hardened. "But it doesn't really make much 
sense, does it?" A frown creased his brow. "Except, of course, that Scout is 
missing. Jared let him out right after he got home last night, and he didn't 
come back in." He shrugged helplessly. "We figured there must be a bitch in heat 
somewhere in the neighborhood, and you know how dogs are. Once they get that 
scent, there's no stopping them, is there?"
Ray Beckwith shook his head. "No way," he agreed. "Sometimes they can be worse'n 
tomcats." He pulled a small notebook out of his jacket pocket. "You say it was 
Jared that let him out?"
"That's right," Ted replied. "In fact, I was with him. We were both in the 
kitchen. The minute Jared opened the door, Scout was off like a rocket."
"And what about your boy? He go out again?"
Ted shook his head. "It was already pretty late, and it was a school night, too. 
Besides, he wasn't feeling well—went right to bed after we gave up trying to get 
the dog back. Still feeling kind of flu-ish this morning, so we're keeping him 
home from school. But I'll tell you what—how about if I have him give you a call 
once he's feeling a little better? Then you can ask him anything you want."
Ray Beckwith closed the notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. "Don't 
really see that that'll be necessary," he said. "Seems like you've pretty much 
told me what I need to know. Sounds like someone came across the dog and took 
him out to Jake's. Used it for some kind of voodoo ceremony. I guess someone 
really had it in for Jake—"
"Or for us," Ted Conway interjected. "Maybe whoever did it used Scout for a 
reason." His eyes fixed on Beckwith.
The sheriff frowned as he turned Ted Conway's words over in his mind. Then he 
thought he understood what the other man meant. "You mean Father Mack?" he 
asked.
Ted Conway shrugged again. "You said that, Ray," he said softly. "Not me."
As Ted Conway's eyes remained steadily on him, Ray Beckwith wondered why he'd 
let Corinne talk him into coming over here. It was suddenly so obvious that the 
Conways didn't have anything to do with the vandalism, he felt he was just 
wasting time. "No sir, Mr. Conway," he said. "I'm sure not gonna let that 
happen." Shaking hands with Ted, he strode off the porch.
"Well?" Corinne asked anxiously. "Was it their dog?"
Ray nodded. "But none of them had anything to do with it, babe. The dog took off 
last night, and the boy was in bed, sick. Still is."
Corinne's lips pursed suspiciously. "Did you see him?"
"I didn't need to see him," Beckwith shot back. "You've been married to me long 
enough to know I can tell when someone's lying to me. Ted Conway wasn't lying."
Corinne's gaze shifted back to the house. Ted Conway was still standing on the 
porch, and as his eyes met hers, Corinne felt as if a wave of hatred had broken 
over her.
Suddenly, all Corinne Beckwith wanted was to get away.
As far away as she could.


 
 
CHAPTER 35
 
 
Kim sat through the first hour of classes barely hearing a word that Sister 
Clarence said. She continually glanced out the window, hoping to see Jared 
coming across the square toward the school, but by the time the class was half 
over, she knew he wasn't coming. Even then she couldn't concentrate. From the 
moment she'd seen Sandy Engstrom, she knew something was wrong. Sandy arrived at 
school just as the bell rang, and when she rushed by her, Kim assumed Sandy was 
trying to get to her locker while she still had time. But when Sandy finally 
arrived in class—two minutes late—her friend hadn't taken her regular seat right 
next to her.
Instead, she slid into an empty desk at the back of the classroom.
Sister Clarence had gone silent when Sandy entered the room, and Kim expected 
her friend to be sent directly to Father Bernard's office. But after fixing 
Sandy with a stern glare, Sister Clarence's face took on a look of concern. 
"Sandra? Are you all right?"
Every head in the class turned to gaze at Sandy. She was wearing more makeup 
than Kim had ever seen on her before, but even the makeup couldn't cover the 
pallor of her complexion.
"I'm fine, Sister Clarence," she announced in a challenging tone that made Kim 
brace herself for her immediate banishment to Father Bernard's office. The whole 
class held its collective breath, waiting. But for the first time in anyone's 
memory, Sister Clarence backed down.
"Very well," she said. "But I won't tolerate your being late again."
For the rest of the hour Kim kept stealing peeks at her friend, but Sandy never 
looked back at her. When the bell rang, Sandy was out the door before Kim had 
even finished packing her books into her bag. She hurried after Sandy, threading 
her way through the crowded corridor toward the lockers, where the two girls had 
fallen into the habit of meeting between classes.
Sandy was nowhere to be seen.
Sandy hadn't been in church yesterday.
Sandy hadn't called her yesterday, either.
And now, this morning, she hadn't even spoken to her.
Kim was just starting back toward her own locker when she caught a glimpse of 
Sandy through the glass of the school's front door. She glanced at the big clock 
on the wall above the door, and saw that she still had five minutes before her 
next class. Working her way through her milling classmates, she pushed the front 
door open and went out onto the sidewalk.
Sandy was deep in conversation with Luke Roberts. As Kim approached them, both 
teenagers fell silent.
"Sandy?" Kim asked uncertainly. "What's going on?"
Sandy turned to gaze at her. As Kim met Sandy's eyes—which seemed to have sunk 
within her skull—she saw it.
The same look she'd seen in her brother's eyes this morning. And her father's.
Then Luke turned to look at her, and there it was in his eyes, too.
Kim's pulse raced as an image rose in her mind, from the nightmare she'd had, 
when she saw Sandy and Luke writhing in front of that strange candlelit altar 
with the inverted cross.
Then Sandy spoke, in an angry, hissing voice Kim had never heard from her 
before. "Leave us alone, you stupid bitch!"
Kim's eyes widened in shock, but even as the words battered her, another memory 
rose in her mind.
Sandy sounded like Jared! Just like Jared when Father MacNeill had come to the 
house yesterday afternoon!
She took a step toward her friend. Without warning, Sandy spat at her, sending a 
great wad of greenish phlegm oozing down the front of Kim's blouse. Kim stared 
at the mess in shock, then, as peals of ugly laughter erupted from Luke and 
Sandy, she turned and fled back into the school. Tears of pain and humiliation 
streamed down her cheeks, and the crowd, already thinning as the students 
drained into the classrooms, parted to make way for her as she lurched toward 
the girls' room. She dropped her book bag on the floor and stared at herself in 
the mirror. Her face looked almost as pale as Sandy's, and as more images and 
memories tumbled through her mind—some of them dreamed, some of them real, all 
of them terrifying—confusion and terror overwhelmed her.
She ran the water in the sink, splashed some on her face, then gingerly scraped 
the wad of phlegm from her blouse. Sandy had spit at her! Actually spit at her! 
How could she have—
Her thought died as her eye caught something in the mirror. She looked down, and 
where the phlegm had been, there was now a small hole in her blouse.
A hole with blackened edges, as if it had been burned.
A whimper escaped Kim's lips. She rubbed harder at her blouse, as if trying not 
only to erase the charring from the material, but the hole as well. She was 
still working at it when she heard her name.
"Kimmie? Kimmie!"
Jumping, she glanced in the mirror, and there he was.
Jared!
She whirled around.
The girls' room was empty; she was alone.
"Kimmie!"
She whirled around again, but this time the mirror was as empty as the room 
behind her.
"Kimmie, help me!"
Jared's voice had a plaintive note to it now, and she remembered the dream she'd 
had this morning, when Jared was drowning and she tried to reach him but 
couldn't.
"Jared?" she whispered, but even the barely spoken word echoed in the emptiness 
of the room. "Oh, God, Jared, what's happening to us?"
A moment later she heard him calling to her again, but now his voice seemed to 
be coming from beyond the room. Leaving her book bag where it lay, Kim stumbled 
out of the bathroom.
The hallway outside was empty.
Still she heard Jared's voice, calling out to her.
She followed the voice, moving down the corridor, then turning into another.
Then up some stairs.
Down another corridor.
More memories tumbled through her mind, images of the corridors through which 
the unseen menace of her nightmares had pursued her, but still she kept going, 
following Jared's ever fainter voice.
Then, at last, she came to a closed door. She stood paralyzed with a terrible 
certainty that she knew what lay beyond.
The obscene cathedral, where she'd witnessed all the worst horrors of her 
nightmares.
Where only this morning she'd seen little Molly, suspended upside down from the 
cross above the altar, the candles flickering in front of her tortured face.
Then, barely audible through the confusion in her mind, she heard Jared's voice 
once more. "Kiiimmmm..."
Steeling herself, Kim pulled the door open.
Not the cathedral.
The biology lab, with zinc-topped worktables laid out in neat rows, each of them 
equipped with a sink.
And on the walls, shelf after shelf of specimens, the dissected carcasses of 
frogs and mice, the organs of larger creatures, all of them floating in sealed 
jars of formaldehyde. As she stared at the jars, she saw that they were now 
filled with blood—overflowing with blood. And in every one of them was some 
fragment of Molly's body.
A little foot in one, a leg in another. Another jar held a hand. In the largest 
jar was her baby sister's head.
Molly's eyes were wide open, and her mouth was stretched into a grimace of 
agony. She seemed to be staring through the haze of blood right at Kim, and as 
she looked into Molly's twisted face, Kim felt every bit of pain Molly must have 
felt as—
Screaming, Kim cut off the thought, unable to bear it. But no matter where she 
turned, there were more jars and still more jars, and from every one of them, 
Molly stared at her.
Kim kept screaming, and finally, her mind no longer able to cope with the images 
that churned through it, she collapsed to the floor, sobbing and moaning.
"No," she whimpered. "Oh, no ... please, no..."


 
 
CHAPTER 36
 
 
Janet woke slowly, luxuriating in the sunlight streaming through the window and 
in the memory of the night before, when Ted had taken her in his arms.
It was like being on their honeymoon all over again, before Ted's drinking had 
taken over their lives. Strange how it had crept over every part of their 
existence so slowly that she hadn't truly realized quite how bad the problem 
was. But now that it was over—now that the Ted Conway she'd first fallen in love 
with was back—she could see exactly how it had happened, how she'd let Ted's 
alcohol nibble away at her marriage. The thing of it was—as she could now see—it 
had never taken a big enough bite all at once to force her into facing the true 
reality of it. Not, anyway, until that last night, when Ted stayed up drinking 
long after their fight, only to come at last to the realization that she would 
finally leave him.
She stretched languidly, once again feeling Ted's hands on her body, his mouth 
on hers, his strength as he made love to her. Her reverie was interrupted by the 
faint sound of the clock tolling the hour in the living room below her. When it 
reached seven, she threw back the sheet—if she didn't hurry, she wouldn't have 
time to fix breakfast for Jared and Kim.
The clock struck twice more.
Nine?
But it couldn't be—she never slept past seven, and most mornings was up by six. 
A glance at the clock by her bedside confirmed how much she'd overslept. Why 
hadn't anyone wakened her? Why hadn't—
And then she knew. Ted had known how tired she was, and how worried about Jared. 
Even after they made love, she'd lain awake until, finally, Ted made her talk it 
out. It had been hard—she'd become so used to dealing with her problems by 
herself that she'd almost forgotten how to talk to Ted, but he'd drawn it all 
out of her, even agreed with her that Jared wasn't just "stretching his wings," 
but that something more was going on. Only after he promised to help her deal 
with the problem had she fallen asleep.
In his arms, feeling safe, and comforted, and loved.
And this morning he'd obviously decided to let her sleep in and take care of the 
kids himself. She pulled on a thin robe and went to the nursery, half expecting 
to find her youngest daughter awake and playing in her crib. But Molly was gone, 
her bedding straightened up and tucked in, exactly the way she herself always 
did it. Sighing contentedly, she moved out onto the landing.
And instantly knew that something was wrong.
She peered down into the yawning entry hall as she moved toward the top of the 
stairs. Was it something about the light?
She looked up at the skylight, but it looked the same as it had the day Ted 
cleaned it. Yet when she looked down once again, she realized that there was, 
indeed, something odd, as if a slight haziness was hanging over everything. 
Janet blinked a couple of times and rubbed her eyes, but the haziness remained. 
Then, when she started down the stairs, she felt it.
There was a chill in the air, as though it were the middle of winter and a freak 
cold snap had struck. But the night had been warm enough to leave the windows 
open, and a single thin blanket had been sufficient. At some point—probably 
early this morning when the sun began flooding in—she'd kicked that away, too. 
Yet as she descended the stairs the air grew colder, until, by the time she 
reached the first floor, gooseflesh was creeping over her skin.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs. The haze had thickened, and though she 
smelled nothing unusual, the atmosphere seemed heavy and hard to breathe.
Fumes of some kind?
That must be it—Ted must be painting, or cleaning something, or—
Molly!
Where was Molly? If she were breathing these fumes—
Janet quickened her step, moving out of the entry hall into the dining room, 
hurrying toward the kitchen. Then something caught her eye, and turning, she 
stared at the mural on the wall, the mural she'd been working on only last 
night.
The marble tile of the terrace she had so carefully textured, so you might 
expect it to be smooth and cold to the touch, looked old and stained.
The balustrade appeared chipped and battered.
And beyond the balustrade, the garden she'd created, painstakingly drawing and 
coloring every leaf and blossom, had died.
The leaves were gone, only bare limbs and twigs remaining. Even the silvery glow 
of moonlight had been mottled, and the sky was tinged with green as if a 
terrible storm were about to break.
It wasn't possible, she thought. No one could have repainted the whole wall 
during the few hours she'd been asleep!
That was it! It had to be.
She must still be asleep, and this was a nightmare from which she'd awaken in a 
minute or two. She'd be back in her bed, and it would take a few seconds before 
she realized that her work—the best work she'd ever done—had not really been 
ruined.
But she didn't awaken.
Instead, the mural itself seemed to come to life. The clouds in the sky 
darkened, and then the branches of the trees began to move, bending forward, 
reaching, their twigs stretching like skeletal fingers, straining toward her. 
Then talons appeared at the ends of the twigs, and as one of the branches lashed 
toward her, Janet reflexively turned away, stumbling toward the kitchen.
Then she heard it.
A soft cry, muffled, almost inaudible.
She stopped short, one hand on the kitchen door, listening.
It came again.
A baby?
Molly?
Pushing the door open, she strode into the kitchen, her eyes going to Molly's 
playpen, over in the corner, safely away from the stove.
Empty!
Her mind raced. The car was outside, so Ted hadn't gone somewhere and taken 
Molly with him. Where was she? Where was he?
The carriage house?
No! The cry she'd heard—and now she was almost certain it had been Molly—had 
come from somewhere inside the house! Turning away from the back door, she went 
back to the dining room.
The sound she heard this time was so low it was almost inaudible. Janet held her 
breath, wishing there were some way to silence the pounding of her own heart.
There!
A low, throbbing sound, so low she wasn't quite certain whether she'd heard it 
or simply felt it. It could have come from the floor itself, up through her feet 
and body, and only then into her consciousness.
The basement.
It was coming from the basement.
As she pulled the door to the basement open, she heard the muffled cry of the 
baby again. But it was much clearer now. She groped for the light switch. 
Flipped it.
"Molly?"
No answer.
"Molly!" Then: "Ted? Are you down there?"
There was still no answer, and she started down the steep flight of stairs.
As she did, the cold deepened, its icy grip closing around her.
As a thick haze appeared out of nowhere, the glare of the naked bulb that lit 
the stairs was muted to a pallid silver glow that barely held the shadows at 
bay. The bulb itself appeared to be suspended in nothing but the gathering mist.
The throbbing sound was louder with every step she took, but so also was the 
sound of the crying baby.
Nor was there any longer any question that the bawling child was Molly.
Janet came at last to the bottom of the stairs, and the closed door to Jared's 
room. The pulsing rhythm was all around her now, drowning out even the pounding 
of her heart, but still she could hear Molly crying out. She put her hand on the 
doorknob to Jared's room and paused, a terrible feeling of foreboding passing 
over her. Suddenly, she wanted to turn away from the closed door, to escape the 
throbbing beat of the music and the terrible cold.
But she couldn't.
Not until she'd found Molly.
The doorknob was so cold it numbed her fingers, and when she tried to turn it, 
she thought at first that it might be locked.
Then the knob turned.
The light above her blinked out.
Janet froze in the darkness.
The bulb. It was only the bulb. No one was above her; no one had turned the 
light out. Yet all around her—everywhere and nowhere—hidden in the darkness, she 
could feel a presence.
The blackness held her to the spot where she stood like an insect pinned in a 
display case. She had a terrible sense of being watched, as if some unseen being 
were above the case, peering down at her as if at some strange species.
A feeling of utter helplessness came over her. The throbbing rhythm grew 
stronger still. The cold and darkness threatened to strangle her. With every 
fiber of her being she tried to free herself so she could flee back up the 
stairs and escape from the horror that held her in its thrall.
Then, once again, Molly cried out.
This time her voice was filled with terror. In an instant all of Janet's 
maternal instincts rose within her. Her own fears vanished and she threw off the 
bonds of the cold and blackness. She pressed against the door.
It opened a crack and a flickering light crept through.
Janet pushed the door harder, and it swung open.
As she saw what lay beyond, a terror beyond anything she'd ever felt before 
gripped Janet.
She began to scream.
And scream. And scream...
 
The sound of her name was so faint that at first Kim barely heard it. But then 
she heard it again: "Kiiiimmm"—the single syllable drawn out as if whoever was 
calling out to her had almost despaired of her responding. Then, as the cry came 
a third time, it seemed suddenly sharper.
"Kim? Kim! Kim, can you hear me?"
Hands gently shook her. She opened her eyes and looked up. Three faces loomed 
above her, but their features were lost in the glare of the bright light behind 
them. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the light, the faces came into focus.
Sister Clarence. Father Bernard. Father MacNeill.
But where was she? She'd been in the lake, trying to save Jared, but—
She tried to sit up, but Sister Clarence's hand held her back.
"It's all right, Kim. Don't try to get up. Just try to tell us what happened."
"Jared!" Kim blurted. "He needs me! He's—" But then, before she finished the 
sentence, her mind began to clear. "Molly!" she cried out. She pressed her hands 
against her eyes and shook her head as if trying to deny even the memory of what 
she'd seen. "They cut her up! They cut her up, and put her in jars, and—" Now 
her sobbing did overtake her, and a moment later she felt Sister Clarence's arms 
go around her. The nun's hand gently stroked her hair.
"It's all right, Kim. We're here. Nothing's going to happen to you. Just try to 
tell us what you saw."
A kaleidoscope of images was tumbling through her mind, and she instinctively 
clutched at the tiny golden cross her aunt had given her. "What is it?" she 
whispered. "What's happening to Jared? He—"
"Hush, child," Sister Clarence soothed. "You're safe with us. Everything will be 
all right." But even as the nun spoke, Kim knew that Sister Clarence didn't 
believe her own words.
"Just tell us," Father MacNeill told her. "Don't worry if none of it makes 
sense. But you have to tell us everything."
Kim's voice choked as a sob rose in her throat. "Mommy says it's just dreams, 
and—" She broke off again, remembering the terrible scene of Sandy and Luke 
making love in front of the candlelit altar. "I can't," she whispered. "It's ... 
it's..."
"I know," Father MacNeill said. He reached out and laid his fingers on her 
forehead, as if baptizing her. "But no matter how terrible it seems to you, you 
can tell us. You can tell us. You can trust us."
As the priest's cool fingers continued to stroke her brow, Kim felt the terror 
inside her begin to lose its grip. Slowly, she began relating all the nightmares 
she'd had since she and her family moved into the old house on the edge of the 
town. She told them about Muffin's disappearance, then Scout's, and about the 
humiliation of Sandy spitting at her. "And then later this morning," she 
concluded, her voice breaking as she choked back her tears, "I—I thought—oh, 
God, I thought Jared and my father were killing my baby sister!" Her eyes fixed 
on Father MacNeill. "I was in the biology lab, and I saw—"
She faltered as another sob threatened to choke her, then went on. "I saw Molly. 
She was all cut up, and they'd put her into jars of—of—" She gazed beseechingly 
at the priest. "What is it, Father? What is it?"
Instead of answering Kim's question, Father MacNeill's hand covered Kim's as she 
clutched the cross. "Where did this come from?" he asked.
Kim frowned. "M-My aunt," she said uncertainly. "Aunt Cora gave it to me just 
before she died."
The priest nodded. "And there's another one, isn't there?" he asked.
Kim started to shake her head, but then the scene in her aunt's room at the 
Willows came back to her, and she nodded. "It was for Molly," she breathed. "My 
mother took it."
Now Father MacNeill took both of Kim's hands in his own and looked into her 
eyes. "I want you to think carefully," he said. "Did your mother put the cross 
on Molly?"
Kim shook her head. "She said she'd keep it until Molly got older."
"But it's in the house?" Father MacNeill pressed.
Kim nodded. "It's probably in Mom's jewelry box."
"And just now you heard Jared calling you, is that right?"
Once again Kim nodded. "But it wasn't really him, was it?" she said. "I mean, 
wasn't it you who was calling my name, trying to wake me up?"
The priest's hands tightened on Kim's. He looked straight into her eyes. "I'm 
going to tell you something, Kim." The timbre of his voice brought all of Kim's 
terrors flooding back as the priest continued to squeeze her hands. "You have to 
be strong, Kim," he went on. "Can you do that?"
Kim hesitated, then forced herself to nod.
"They weren't dreams, Kim," Father MacNeill said. "None of it. Everything you 
saw—everything you thought you dreamed—really happened. All of it."


 
 
CHAPTER 37
 
 
 It wasn't possible. None of what she was seeing could possibly be happening.
Janet's last scream hung in the air, fading away, only to build once again, as 
if somehow the vast chamber into which she'd stumbled were amplifying it and 
reamplifying it.
Every muscle in her body had gone flaccid, and for a moment that went on 
forever, she thought she would collapse to the floor.
Her mind cast out in every direction, seeking something, anything, that would 
make sense of what she was experiencing.
A nightmare?
But she was awake! She knew she was awake.
An hallucination. That had to be it—everything she'd seen, the strange look to 
the house, the bizarre alterations to her trompe l'oeil, none of it could be 
anything but an hallucination.
Her eyes flicked over the impossible vision before her. Jared's room, that 
musty, black-walled chamber, had vanished. But what had taken its place couldn't 
exist. As the door had swung open, the piercing light from within blinded her 
for a second, but then her vision had cleared and she'd seen it: a space so vast 
it seemed to go on forever, its farthest reaches lost in shadows so black they 
devoured the harsh, cold light that seemed to come from everywhere—and nowhere. 
But what had made her scream—the image that had ripped an anguished howl of pure 
horror from her throat—was the altar that loomed in the distance, dominating the 
entire space, although it appeared so far away as to be unreachable.
Bones. The whole thing was made of human bones—thousands of them. The altar was 
covered with flickering candles from which the scent of burning flesh billowed 
into the thick, smoke-filled atmosphere. On the altar lay the desiccated remains 
of a hand.
A human hand.
A right hand.
Its nails split with age, its rotted skin falling away, its forefinger curled as 
if beckoning to her. She knew instinctively where it had come from: the 
desecrated tomb of George Conway. Even as its image burned into her mind, Janet 
forced herself to look away, only to be faced with something else. It, too, she 
recognized in a flash: the severed right forepaw of her son's pet, Scout. Next 
to it lay the foot of another animal, but that one, blessedly, she did not 
recognize.
Nauseated, she tore her eyes from the grisly objects, only to face an even more 
horrifying vision: above the altar, floating unsupported by anything she could 
see, was an inverted cross.
From the cross was suspended a figure, held to it with a single spike piercing 
both feet, its head dangling down. Two more spikes pierced the figure's wrists, 
pinning them to the transverse of the cross.
A great gash was torn in the figure's right side, and blood oozed from the 
wound. Blood, and something else as well.
A squirming, roiling mass of maggots, erupting from the great wound.
At last her eyes fastened on the figure's face, and her screams built until her 
own voice filled the vast space, then buffeted back at her, perverted into 
taunting laughter. For it was her own features she beheld above the altar, 
twisted in anguish, blood dripping down the planes of her face to mat her hair.
She felt the pain now. Her feet and wrists throbbed with agony, and the wound, 
churning with the ravenous maggots, burned unbearably in her side. She could 
feel the heat of blood streaming from the gash, and her nostrils filled with its 
coppery odor. She tried to take a step forward, collapsed to her knees and 
screamed again as her bloodied hands struck the floor.
Drugs!
That was it! Somehow, she had to have been drugged. But even that made no sense, 
for she could remember everything perfectly clearly, from the moment Ted came 
home last night.
Their lovemaking.
Falling asleep in his arms.
Waking up, filled with a sense of well-being and contentment.
She'd eaten nothing—drunk nothing.
Then how...? But the question was never completed, for even as it formed, two 
new figures appeared. Although their backs were toward her, she recognized them 
immediately.
Her husband.
And her son.
Together, they placed a bundle on the altar, something she couldn't quite see, 
for it was wrapped in some kind of animal skin.
A skin covered with golden fur.
Then, even before realizing what the skin must be, she knew with terrible 
certainty what was inside it.
"Molly!" she screamed.
Ignoring the agony in her feet and wrists, Janet raced toward the grotesque 
altar. From out of nowhere, a terrible peal of laughter rolled over her, and 
both Ted and Jared turned to gaze at her.
Ted raised his finger to point at her, and she felt a stab of heat lash into 
her, as if she'd been struck by a laser. Still she lurched toward the altar, her 
arms outstretched, her baby daughter's name shrieking from her lips. "Molly ... 
Molly ... Molly ... Molly..."
The howls of mocking laughter swelled, and over and over again she felt the 
whiplike flick of the unseen force emanating from Ted's hand. Then, when she was 
still ten yards from the altar, Ted spoke.
"Stop her!"
Jared, a glittering dagger clutched in his right hand, started toward his 
mother.


 
 
CHAPTER 38
 
 
Father MacNeill held Kim's hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. He could 
still see the terror that had taken root inside her, but now there was something 
else as well: a look of resolve was displacing the fear. As they stood in front 
of the house, the girl's determination was overcoming the paralyzing panic that 
had overpowered her in the biology lab at school. "You can do it, Kimberley," he 
said quietly. "Just remember, your aunt was right. The cross will protect you. 
You're going to see more frightening things than you can even imagine, but as 
long as you wear the cross, you will be safe. Do you understand that?"
Kim hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding. Safe, she whispered to 
herself. The word had become a mantra, which she kept silently repeating as her 
fingers constantly went to the cross suspended from her neck on the thin gold 
chain: Safe ... Safe ... Safe... But what if the chain broke? What if the cross 
fell away and—
"Kim ... Kiiimmmmm..."
Jared's voice again! But it sounded weaker, as if he were sinking farther into 
the depths she'd seen in her dreams, sinking beyond her reach. "Now," she 
whispered, almost as much to herself as to the two priests who flanked her. 
Leaving them on the sidewalk, she started toward the house.
"We can't let her go in there by herself," Father Bernard said as she moved 
across the lawn.
Father MacNeill said nothing until Kim mounted the steps to the porch. Even from 
here he could feel the icy chill emanating from the structure, almost see the 
heavy aura of evil that hung over it. "We don't have a choice," he finally 
replied. "Neither you nor I could even cross the threshold. We don't have the 
strength."
As Kimberley Conway slowly opened the front door, stepped through it, then 
closed it behind her, the two priests began to pray.
 
As it echoed through the vast emptiness of the house, the sound of the door 
closing behind Kim had a terrible finality to it. She stood perfectly still. 
Everything about the house had changed; the icy chill was all-pervasive now, and 
Kim knew there was nothing she could do to protect herself from it. The air had 
taken on a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe, and every instinct 
within Kim told her to leave.
To leave now, before it was too late.
But even as her instincts tried to force her to turn away, she started toward 
the stairs.
A rat came out of nowhere, darting toward her. Kim reflexively flinched 
backward, a shriek of revulsion rising in her throat.
Not real!
The words rose in her mind as her right hand clutched the cross around her neck.
The rat vanished.
Vanished, or only veered away to disappear through the open doors of the dining 
room?
Steeling herself against the panic the rat's appearance had brought on, Kim 
continued toward the stairs. The atmosphere grew even heavier, and her feet 
seemed mired in quicksand, as if she were caught up in a terrible nightmare.
She came to the bottom of the stairs, but even as she set foot on the first 
tread, the staircase itself came alive with snakes. They were everywhere, 
writhing among themselves, then rising up, their heads swaying as their tongues 
flicked out at her.
Kim's fingers tightened on the cross, and she took a second step, then a third.
The serpents parted before her.
As she came to the landing, a high-pitched shriek rent the silence of the house, 
and Kim whirled around, but saw nothing.
Another shriek, once again behind her.
She spun around again, but again saw nothing. Now the shrieking built to a howl, 
and Kim covered her ears, bolting up the flight to the mezzanine. A moment later 
she stood in front of the door to her parents' room, and as she reached for the 
knob, she tried to prepare herself for whatever might wait within.
She turned the knob, pushed the door open.
The corpse, naked, hung from the chandelier, a thick rope knotted around its 
neck.
The mouth hung open, the tongue lolled out.
The empty, dead eyes fixed on Kim.
It was her mother.
Once again a scream boiled up in Kim's throat; once again the voice inside spoke 
as her fingers tightened on her cross: Not real!
Her mother's lifeless arm came up; her finger pointed accusingly at her. "Your 
fault!" The words croaked from her mother's constricted throat, dribbled from 
lips grayed with death.
Kim's heart thudded, her legs went weak. Hysteria threatened to overwhelm her. 
But then, from somewhere deep within, she heard her aunt's voice whispering. "It 
will protect you. The cross will protect you." Forcing back the hysteria that 
threatened to paralyze her, Kim turned away from the specter hanging from the 
chandelier, and went to the small dresser on which her mother's jewelry box sat. 
Opening the lid, she began searching, hunting for the second cross. The top tray 
was filled with a tangle of necklaces and a few inexpensive rings, but there was 
no sign of the cross. Kim lifted out the tray. Beneath it was another 
compartment, in which lay three boxes. The first one contained a single strand 
of pearls; the second an ornately carved jade pendant Kim hadn't seen since her 
grandmother had died a dozen years earlier. Attached to the pendant's chain was 
a small tag, with a message written in her grandmother's shaky hand:
For Kim on her 21st birthday. She clutched the pendant for a moment, then put it 
back and opened the third box.
The second gold cross glittered brightly. As Kim lifted it out of the box, a 
scream of agony erupted behind her. She whirled around to see her mother's 
corpse twitching at the end of the rope; both hands were now stretched toward 
Kim as greedy fingers tried to snatch away the cross.
"No!" Kim breathed. "Never!"
The specter screamed again, the dead features of the face contorting with rage. 
The arms stretched toward her until the fingers almost touched Kim's flesh.
Her courage teetered as her heart pounded. But she didn't flinch away.
With one final howl of enraged frustration, the terrible specter of her mother's 
corpse dropped away.
The chain wrapped around Kim's fingers, the cross itself clutched tightly in her 
left hand, she returned to the bedroom door and paused, listening. Through the 
door's thick panels she could hear something—something that sounded faintly 
familiar, but that she couldn't quite put a name to.
She opened the door a crack, and instantly the sound threatened to deafen her.
Wasps!
Millions of them, swirling in a cloud so thick she almost couldn't see across to 
the opposite side of the hall. All her instincts told her to slam the door 
closed again, to cower in the safety of the bedroom until the stinging horde was 
gone. But once again she forced her instincts aside and threw the door wide.
The wasps swirled around her head.
Steadily, Kim began walking toward the head of the stairs, her skin crawling 
with the anticipation of millions of tiny feet clinging to her, thousands of 
stingers plunging into her body. She broke into a run, pounded down the stairs, 
then through the doors into the dining room. She slammed the dining room doors 
closed. Instantly, the droning of the insects died away.
As she moved toward the door to the basement stairs, she tried not to even 
glance at her mother's mural, terrified of what she might now see there. But her 
eyes were drawn to it, and her breath caught in her throat as she gazed into a 
blazing inferno beyond the French doors she had watched her mother draw. Flames 
were everywhere; the trees bore limbs of fire, and clouds of smoke hung in the 
sky. Burning figures whirled and spun across the fiery lawn. The cacophonic 
moans of a thousand tortured souls rolled out of the scene, and Kim felt an 
unbearable hopelessness pervade her.
Then a longing seized her—a terrible longing to banish the cold that had 
enveloped her the moment she'd entered the house by stepping into the blaze. 
Abruptly, the French doors were no longer painted on the wall, and she knew all 
she had to do was step through them and she would be warmed by the fires.
The fires of Hell.
She took a step toward the doors; they opened of their own volition, as if to 
welcome her.
Another step.
Then another.
Only one more, and—
Seizing control of herself, Kim turned away from the flaming eternity beyond the 
doors and moved instead to the door that led to the basement.
A door that slammed behind her, plunging her into inky blackness.
The cross clutched in her hand, she began descending the stairs.
 
Janet felt the tip of the dagger at her throat, but even the threat of its 
plunging deep into her neck would not have stopped her had she been able to 
force her body to obey her will. But instead of responding to the commands of 
her mind, everything below her neck had gone numb. It was as if some alien force 
had wrested control from her, compelling her to stand where she was and watch.
Ted had by now opened the skin of the dog, unwrapping Molly, who now lay naked 
upon the altar.
Molly, too, seemed in the grip of the same force that had paralyzed Janet, for 
she made no move to escape. But she was crying, and Janet could hear her terror.
Ted had lain the child on her back, and she looked utterly helpless in the 
candlelight. Her eyes were fastened on the image on the cross—Janet's own 
image—and Janet was certain Molly thought that what she was seeing was real.
"Stop," she begged Ted. "For the love of God, Ted! What are you doing?"
Ted turned to face her. Though she still recognized him, his handsome features 
were bloated, his skin blotched and mottled. Sores and pustules were erupting on 
every part of him that she could see, and as he turned to her, his robe fell 
open.
His skin was rippling strangely, and then Janet saw the source of the rippling 
as swarms of maggots began to break through his skin, wriggling free, dropping 
off him to creep across the floor toward her.
She sobbed, and with every cry that emerged from her throat, a hideous peal of 
cruel laughter boiled from her husband's mouth.
His glittering eyes flicked toward her as the knife in Jared's hand moved. Janet 
felt the point slip through her skin.
"Wait!" Ted commanded.
Jared froze. The knife stayed, quivering, its point still in her flesh.
"Molly," Ted whispered. "Molly first, and then your mother."
"No," Janet whispered. It was a nightmare—it had to be! And yet, despite its 
impossibility, Janet knew it wasn't a dream. "Oh, please..." she moaned, her 
voice breaking.
The point of the knife withdrew as Jared moved away from her, leaving a bead of 
blood on her neck. But still Janet was held in the thrall of the unseen force, 
and could do nothing to save her youngest child. As she watched helplessly, 
Jared approached the altar until he stood above Molly, the dagger poised above 
her naked belly.
"Do it, Jared," Ted's menacing voice whispered. "You know you have to, Jared. 
You know you want to! Serve your master, Jared! Serve him as I promised you 
would!"
An explosion of pure rage erupted from Janet. "What!" she demanded. What master? 
What did you promise? "Tell me what you did!"
Ted's glittering eyes fixed on her. "I did what I had to do," he spat. "I did 
what I needed to do for me, and for you, too!"
Janet gazed bleakly at him, her mind reeling, trying to grasp what he was 
saying. But nothing made any sense. Everything she was seeing, everything she 
was hearing—all of it was impossible. Yet deep inside, she knew it wasn't 
impossible. Deep inside—in some way she would never be able to fathom—she knew 
what Ted had done.
He had given up his soul.
And his son's soul, too.
Not his son! Their son! "No," she screamed. "You can't do it. You can't give 
Jared away! He's not yours, Ted!"
"Isn't he?" Ted taunted. "Watch him! Just watch him. He'll do exactly as he's 
told." He turned away from Janet to face the altar, and raised his arms.
Before her the inverted cross—and the agonized image of Janet 
herself—disappeared. In its place a visage of pure evil materialized, a face 
with features torn from a nightmare. The eyes, sunk deep within suppurating 
sockets, glittered in the hard, cold light. They were fixed on Janet, and she 
could feel them boring into her, searching deep within her, looking for—what?
Weakness!
What do you want? Though the question was spoken silently, Janet could hear the 
menacing—yet somehow seductive—voice as clearly as if it had spoken directly 
into her ear. You can have it. You can have anything you want.
Now the image began to change, the vile face softening until she was looking at 
Ted.
But not Ted the way he was.
Ted the way he'd been, many years ago.
Except even that wasn't true. The Ted she now beheld hovering above the altar 
wasn't Ted as he'd ever been; he was the Ted she'd always dreamed of.
Perfect in every way, his features handsome and even, his eyes clear.
Everything about him idealized.
The image of Ted smiled at her. It spoke again with Ted's voice, caressing her, 
soothing her.
Promising her.
"Anything, Janet. You can have anything you want. Your life can be as perfect as 
you've ever dreamed...." The voice went on, whispering, murmuring, reaching deep 
within.
"No," she whispered, but this time it was more a plea than a command, and as the 
voice continued its siren song, the image's perfect eyes fixed on her. She felt 
the deep pull of temptation. "Please," she begged. "Don't do this to me ... 
please don't do this...."
But now she was feeling Ted, too, feeling his hands on her body, his warm 
fingers exploring every part of her, touching her, stroking her. She felt a 
surge of warmth grow in her groin and begin spreading through her, and her words 
turned to soft moans of ecstasy.
"You want it, Janet," the voice purred. "You know you want it. Anything and 
everything. Just give yourself to me, Janet. Open yourself. Let me in. Let me 
possess you. Let me—"
Suddenly, a single word resounded through the vast cathedral, shattering the 
seduction. "NOOOooo...!"
For a moment Janet had no idea where the sound had come from, but then she heard 
it again, from behind her. Tearing her eyes loose from the perfect image of Ted 
that hung suspended above the candlelit altar, she twisted around.
She saw her elder daughter coming toward her. Kim's face was ashen, her eyes 
wide with a combination of terror and wonder. Her right hand was clutching the 
cross that hung from a golden chain around her neck. Her left arm was extended 
straight out before her, and from her fingers hung the second cross, the one 
Janet herself had put away for Molly. As Kim drew near, Janet reached out to 
take the cross, but Kim passed by her, her eyes never wavering from—
—the image above the altar! Kim was gazing at it, and the expression on her face 
was enough to tell Janet that it wasn't she to whom Kim would offer the golden 
cross, but to the terrible being floating over the glowing candles. Then, as 
Janet watched, the visage of a perfect Ted changed again, mutating into 
something else, something with eyes that glittered with hatred. The soft skin 
that had been so perfect a second earlier turned red and scaly, and Ted's full 
lips thinned and hardened until Janet was staring at the mouth of a reptile.
The mouth opened, and a two-headed serpent shot out, each of the serpents 
writhing individually, each of their maws gaping wide to exhibit venom-dripping 
fangs.
Whimpering with terror, Janet cowered back from the terrible being.
Kim, though, walked steadily forward.
Both Jared and Ted stood before the altar now, the image of their god looming 
above them. The dagger vibrated in Jared's right hand, a few inches above 
Molly's naked breast, and as Kim drew closer, Ted's voice echoed through the 
chamber.
"Do it," he commanded once more. "Do it now!"
Jared's hand moved, and the dagger's point touched Molly's skin.
"DO IT!" Ted screamed. "Make your sacrifice!"
 
Not real!
Kim repeated the words over and over again as she moved toward the altar. She 
tried not to look at the terrifying being that floated above the altar, 
concentrating instead on forcing her feet to obey the will of her mind instead 
of the power of her fear.
Not real, she told herself again.
But this time she knew it was real, that what she was seeing was the very source 
of evil itself, and not merely an image conjured up in some underworld to 
frighten her away.
She could still hear Jared's voice calling to her, but it was weaker now. She 
was close enough to feel his mind, and she could sense him weakening as their 
father railed at him. In another moment or two it would be too late.
The twin serpents flicked toward her once again, their fangs bared, their 
slitted eyes glowing, but when she moved the cross in her left hand toward them, 
they veered away, hissing like water splashed on a sizzling griddle.
She moved closer, and now the evil image itself was screaming, bellowing in rage 
as she drew nearer, then nearer still, until she was next to Jared, standing 
before the altar, gazing into her brother's face in the light of the flickering 
candles that lit the area above the altar. The tip of the dagger still rested on 
Molly's breast. Molly herself was crying, and wailing for her mother.
"Do it, damn you!" she heard her father command, and saw Jared's knuckles turn 
white as his fingers tightened on the haft of the dagger.
He raised it, ready to plunge it deep into his little sister's chest.
Kim reached out and dropped the chain over Jared's head. The cross fell to his 
chest.
In the instant the cross touched him, Jared's face contorted with rage, and he 
lifted the dagger higher. His mouth opened and a screech of fury burst from his 
throat. A moment later the dagger flashed downward.
And plunged to the hilt into Ted Conway's chest.
Ted staggered, then sank to his knees. Jared, the dagger still clutched in his 
hand, pulled it loose. Ted gazed up at Jared, his eyes filled with shock, color 
draining from his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Jared thrust the 
dagger into his father's gaping face, ramming it through the roof of his 
father's mouth to sink it deep into the core of his brain.
His life already ended, blood still gurgling from his wounds, Ted crumpled to 
the floor in front of the altar.
"Get Molly," Jared whispered, but even though his words were barely audible, Kim 
heard them directly from his mind. "Get Mom. Get out. For God's sake, get out."
Lifting Molly off the altar, Kim turned and ran up the aisle, calling out to her 
mother to follow her. A moment later they burst through the doors.
And back into the darkness of the staircase.
As the terrible nightmare released her from its grip, Janet stopped short. "I—I 
don't understand—" she stammered. "What—"
But Kim, still carrying Molly, pushed her up the stairs. "Get out!" she said. 
"Jared says we have to get out. Now!"
Something in her daughter's voice penetrated the confusion that surrounded 
Janet, and, taking Molly from Kim's arms, she stumbled up the stairs, through 
the dining room and entry hall, and out onto the front porch.
The sun was shining brightly, and a faint breeze played in the air.
Janet was back in the perfect morning to which she had awakened.


 
 
CHAPTER 39
 
 
Father MacNeill's prayers died on his lips as the front door of the house flew 
open. When Kim burst out onto the porch, no more than ten minutes after she'd 
gone into the house, he was certain she'd failed. Either she hadn't found the 
second cross, or, more likely, she had lost her nerve.
He didn't want even to think about the worst possibility, that somehow she had 
lost the cross that had been hanging around her neck.
When Janet Conway appeared with Molly in her arms, however, he released the 
breath he'd unconsciously been holding and took a step toward the house. But as 
he moved off the sidewalk and onto the Conway property itself, the chill of evil 
fell over him, and he knew that the terrible confrontation inside had not yet 
ended.
Kim, exhausted by what she'd been through, collapsed into his supporting arms. 
He held her for a moment, feeling her heart pounding, her body trembling. "It's 
all right," he told her. "You're going to be all right." Eventually, the 
throbbing of her heart began to slow, her trembling to ease. "Where is your 
brother?" he asked, then more urgently: "Where is he?"
Kim raised her face—streaked with tears she could no longer keep under 
control—and looked beseechingly into the priest's eyes. "He stayed," she 
whispered. "He told me to leave, but he stayed."
"And your father?" the priest went on.
Kim's voice wavered as she struggled against the sob that threatened to choke 
her. "He—He's dead," she stammered. "Jared—"
Father MacNeill pressed the forefinger of his right hand against her lips to 
silence her before she could finish. "Not Jared," he said quietly. "Jared did 
nothing." His eyes fixed on Kim's. "Do you understand that? It was never your 
brother. Never."
Janet, her strength ebbing away, sank onto the narrow strip of lawn between the 
sidewalk and the street. Hugging Molly close—as much for her own comfort as for 
her child's—she tried to grasp what had just happened. But she couldn't. 
Nothing—not one single thing since she woke up that morning—made any sense. And 
yet as she listened to Father MacNeill talking to Kim, it sounded as though both 
of them not only knew about the nightmare she'd just been through, but somehow 
understood it. Her eyes drifted to the house, but all she could see was the 
terrible image of her son, a knife—glistening with blood—gripped tightly in his 
hand as he stood above his father.
Above Ted—
No, not Ted.
Someone—something—else. But not Ted.
Not Jared—
No, it had to have been some kind of nightmare—it had to have been....
Certain her sanity was collapsing, she summoned the last reserves of her 
strength. "Tell me," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Someone, please—tell me 
what's happening to me...."
Father MacNeill knelt beside her and placed a comforting arm around her 
shoulder. "Hell," he said softly. "You've just been to Hell, Janet. But you're 
back. It's over."
But still he felt the cold of evil spreading out from the house. Still, he knew 
it was not over.
Not yet.


 
 
CHAPTER 40
 
 
The vast space around him filled with a cacophony of rage that threatened to 
shatter Jared's mind. The dagger forgotten, he reflexively clamped his hands 
over his ears to shut out the anguished shrieks of the damned souls whose 
wailing agonies resounded around him.
The knife, its blade still smeared with Ted Conway's blood, had fallen only a 
fraction of an inch from Ted's lifeless hand. As Jared turned away from the 
altar, his foot touched the haft and it swung around, brushing against the 
fingers of its victim.
As metal touched flesh, the finger twitched as if shocked by electricity. Then, 
instead of relaxing back into the stillness of death, Ted's fingers closed on 
the dagger. The blood on its blade faded as if sucked back into the body from 
which it had spurted only moments before. A guttural sound spewed from Ted's 
throat, and he sat up, then staggered to his feet, bracing himself against the 
altar. His eyes burned into the retreating back of his son with such intensity 
that Jared, feeling the fury of his father's gaze, turned back.
His father's mouth opened. Jared could see the wound in its roof, and when his 
father spoke, the words were muddied as they crossed the tear the dagger had 
opened.
"No," Ted gasped. "Not this way." He tried to straighten his back, and took a 
lurching step toward Jared. "This isn't how it ends." He reached out, beseeching 
Jared. "Not like this."
Jared took a step forward, ready to take his father's outstretched hand, but a 
second before their fingers touched, an image rose out of his subconscious.
 
Night.
Asleep in his room.
Then awake, uncertain what had called him out of sleep.
A voice—his father's—calling to him.
Rising from his bed, following his father's voice down the stairs, through the 
dining room, then down into the basement.
A door.
He opened it.
Beyond the door, a heavy mist, but through the mist, he'd seen his father 
reaching out to him. "Help me, Jared," he'd heard his father say. "I need you to 
help me."
He moved forward through the mist, and his father's hand—icy cold—closed on his. 
And in that moment when his father's fingers clamped on his own, a terrible 
feeling of desolation fell over Jared.
He felt lost; abandoned.
Fear entered his soul, a terror of what his father was about to do, but that he 
had no power to resist.
His father led him through the fog, and they came at last to a golden, jeweled 
altar, glowing as if lit from within. Above the altar, he had seen an inverted 
cross, and in front of the cross hung a visage of pure evil.
Jared felt his soul shriveling as he beheld the image. He tried to turn away, 
but the eyes of the image held him.
The eyes were hungry, and even before his father spoke again, Jared knew what it 
was the evil image craved.
And he knew he was lost.
"You are my son and my firstborn," he heard his father say. "You will obey me." 
Unable to resist his father, Jared gazed upon the face of evil.
"I give you my son," Jared heard his father say.
The face of evil smiled, and then Jared heard another voice, which seemed to 
come from everywhere and nowhere. It penetrated into the deepest part of his 
mind and soul, and Jared listened.
He had no choice.
"You belong to me, Jared," the voice whispered. "Your father has given you to 
me, and now you are mine."
Jared nodded.
"You will serve me and only me. You will build me a cathedral, and bring me 
others. You will feed me. You will worship me. You will destroy my enemies." The 
voice whispered on, instructing Jared in the depravities he would commit, the 
sacrifices he would make.
And then, before even the first flicker of dawn began to break, he had returned 
to his room, to his bed, to his sleep.
When he woke up again, he knew it was not a dream, and that very day he went to 
the basement and began.
Began doing everything the voice of evil had instructed him to do.
Powerless to resist, he called out to Kim, begging her to help him, and several 
times she'd come.
She'd seen what was happening, seen what he was doing, but she hadn't 
understood, hadn't helped him.
Until today.
 
Jared's hand was only a fraction of an inch from his father's reach when he 
pulled it away, and instead of his fingers closing on his father's, they closed 
instead on the gold cross his sister had hung around his neck. He felt his soul 
expanding within him, felt the cold and loneliness in which he'd been living 
begin to dissipate. As the grip of evil lost its strength, the intensity of the 
howls that filled the cathedral grew. But it was no longer the lost souls of 
Hell crying out. Rather, it was Evil itself, raging at the escape of its victim 
but powerless to stop it.
Jared's eyes rose once more to the evil image floating before the inverted 
cross, then returned to his father. "You gave me to him," he said softly. "You 
gave your own son to the Devil." Stepping past his father, who had already 
collapsed back to his knees, Jared swept the candles from the altar.
In an instant, flames spread through the profane cathedral, and once more the 
voice of evil screamed with rage. Jared ignored it, turning away to stride to 
the door.
"No!" his father screamed. "NOOoooo!"
As his father's scream died away, Jared turned to look at him one last time. The 
flames were everywhere now, and his father, his wounds once more streaming with 
blood, was spinning among them, turning first one way, then another, searching 
for an escape.
But there was no escape.
There would never be an escape.
Jared, his lips forming the first words of a prayer he hadn't uttered since he 
entered this house, turned and walked through the doors.
"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our 
death...."
 
What do you think they're going to do with her?" Luke Roberts asked Sandy 
Engstrom.
Sandy shrugged indifferently. "They can lock her up and throw away the key, for 
all I care." Though it was still an hour before noon, they were sitting in the 
pizza parlor, where they'd been ever since Father MacNeill and Father Bernard 
had taken Kim Conway out of the biology lab. As they finished their second 
Cokes, they decided that if any of the nuns gave them any grief when they went 
back to school tomorrow, they'd just say they were so upset by what happened to 
Kim that they couldn't bear to stay at school.
Luke's lip curled into a smirk. "I thought Kim was your best friend."
"Melissa Parker was my best friend," Sandy retorted. "Kim's way too 
goody-goody." Cocking her head, she eyed Luke. "Did you and Melissa ever do it?"
Luke's laugh was harsh. "Are you kidding? She was just as bad as Kim! You'd 
think she was gonna be a nun or something."
Sandy opened her mouth to reply, but suddenly she felt something deep inside her 
letting go.
Something she hadn't even known was gripping her.
For a moment—a moment that passed in the blink of an eye—she had a terrible 
feeling that she was going to start vomiting again, as she had every morning 
since the night she'd spent at Kim's, but that sensation passed, too.
She shook her head, blinking. She felt utterly disoriented. What was she doing 
sitting in the pizza parlor at eleven in the morning? Sister Clarence would kill 
her!
And sitting across from her was Luke Roberts! Luke Roberts, whom she'd never 
planned to speak to again. She was just about to scramble out of the booth when 
Luke stood up.
"Jeez!" he said. "What am I doing here? Father Bernard and Father Mack are 
really gonna kill me this time!" Without so much as a goodbye, he dashed out the 
door and ran toward the school, a block away.
Sandy left enough money on the table to pay for her Coke and Luke's, too.
She slid out of the booth to start back to school, her mind wiped clean of 
everything that had happened to her since she'd first entered the Conway house.
Still praying, Jared Conway walked through the dining room and entry hall to the 
front door. He could feel the house throbbing with the evil it contained, and as 
he neared the front door, he felt it reaching out to him, still trying to 
ensnare him, to pull him back into the realm of darkness.
He opened the front door and stepped out onto the broad porch.
As he pulled the door closed behind him, he thought he heard his father's voice 
calling out to him one last time.
This time, he didn't listen.
As he stepped off the porch and started across the lawn toward his mother and 
sisters, the house burst into flames.
They were flames, Jared knew, that could never be completely put out.
Standing with his arms around his mother and twin sister, he watched the fire 
for a long time, but at last, as the frame of the house gave way and the 
structure collapsed into the conflagration, he turned away.
For him, it was finally over.