by John Saul
Mitch took Angie’s arm and drew her away. “C’mon, honey. Let’s let him do his job.”
Back in the tiny waiting area, Tiffany’s strange words finally sank in, and a cold fury began to build inside Angie. “She said it wasn’t an accident, Mitch. You heard her. ‘They tried to kill us!’ That’s what she said, Mitch.”
He sat down in one of the plastic chairs and drew his wife down into the chair next to him, feeling her anger, along with the fury in his own heart. “Who, though?” he grated, directing the question to no one in particular. “Who’d do something like that?” But even as he asked the question, an answer was already forming in his own mind.
“Why doesn’t someone ask Conner?” Zach asked. “That’s who she was with, wasn’t it?” But when he looked at his father, he instantly knew the truth. “Oh, jeez …” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Conner can’t be dead! He—”
“It was murder,” Angie said, her fury finally erupting. “Whoever they were, they killed Conner, and they tried to kill Tiffany, too. You call Dan West, Mitch! You call him right now!”
But she didn’t need to tell him; Mitch Garvey was already punching Dan West’s home number into his cell phone. Whoever had done this was going to pay.
If he had to, he might very well kill them himself.
In fact, he’d like to do that.
He’d like that very, very much.
Bettina’s eyes moved from the light and shadows on the wall to the window. A car was approaching, its running lights refracting in the snow, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
The house trembled as a nearly subsonic rumble rolled through it, and a chill swept over her.
She backed away from the window.
Her hand closed on the iron poker from the fireplace.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
The strange rumble in the house grew louder, but not quite loud enough to keep Bettina from hearing a car door slam.
Her grip tightened on her weapon.
There was a great pounding on the door, and before she could move either to open it or back away, the massive oaken door flew open.
Shep Dunnigan strode in, his face scarlet, his body shaking with barely contained fury.
Bettina unconsciously reached out to steady herself against the wall as she faced him.
“Where is he?” Dunnigan demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “What the hell have you done with my son?” He stepped toward Bettina, the front door slamming shut behind him and the locks falling into place. Shep spun around and tried to open the door.
It held, locked fast.
“Nick isn’t here,” Bettina said, struggling to keep her own voice under control, to betray nothing of the panic—and fury—welling up inside her.
Shep glowered. “You’ve done something to him,” he snarled. “And to my wife, too. You’re a witch.” And there it was.
The word that had been whispered about her for so long, finally flung in her face.
Bettina felt her legs weakening, and when she opened her mouth to speak, nothing came out. No, she told herself. You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of, and never have. She steeled herself, and found her voice. “I did nothing to them, and you know it.” Her eyes bored into him, and she hurled one more word at him: “Nothing!”
Shep stepped closer. “Nothing?” he echoed, his voice as poisonous as the sneer on his lips. “Then what the hell is this?” He held up the bag of loose tea. “It’s drugs!” he shouted, not giving her time to reply. “You think I don’t recognize drugs when I see them?” He flung the bag of tea at Bettina’s face, but before she could duck, a blast of air ripped through the huge foyer, snatched the Baggie and hurled it to the far end.
“What the hell was that?” Shep yelled at her. “What the hell are you doing?”
Again Bettina made no reply, but this time the house itself seemed to answer his question.
Bang!
Slam!
The outside window shutters slammed shut and a guttural sound emanated from the base of the house. Bettina froze.
Shep’s eyes widened for a second, then narrowed as he focused on her. “You,” he growled, starting toward her. “You think what I did to you last time—”
Bettina raised the poker, ready to defend herself, and then the whole house heaved violently, throwing Shep to the floor.
Bettina watched in shock as he tried to regain his feet, but he’d risen no farther than his knees when a burst of air buffeted him, throwing him down the hallway after the tea.
It was as if the whole house had suddenly come alive; there was electricity in the air, and all the energy the house was generating seemed to have focused on Shep Dunnigan.
A noise like thunder followed the stream of air that enveloped Shep, and he could neither get to his feet nor fight the force that drove him inexorably toward doors that led to the dining room, and then to the kitchen beyond.
And yet, though Bettina could hear the sounds—the thunder and what was now a howling wind—she could feel nothing of the tornado Shep Dunnigan appeared to be caught in. It was as if he were being drawn into some parallel universe, one that was close to hers, but different enough that she was not experiencing it.
She watched helplessly as Shep gasped for air and mouthed words she could barely hear.
“Stop it!” he was begging. “What are you doing?” But it was useless—though he could still see her, she was no longer in focus, as if she were fading away into some other place.
The wind strengthened further, propelling Shep through the dining room and into the kitchen. He reached for the pipes of the ancient porcelain sink, desperate to anchor himself against the energy pushing him, but just as his fingers were about to close on them, the faucets opened and a gush of black sludge—sludge that reeked of death itself—spewed over him and spread across the floor. A moment later Shep himself was thrashing on the floor, the slime burning his skin everywhere it touched him.
Bettina Philips, watching in stunned awe, stepped into the kitchen just as the door slammed shut behind her and the basement door burst open, crashing against the wall behind it.
Shep tried again to get to his feet, tried to reach for the table, or a chair, or anything else that might support him, but the black, burning, stinking sludge covered him now, and the unseen force that felt like the breath of Satan himself pushed him toward the open door to the basement and the steps beyond.
Bettina stood in the corner of the kitchen, her hand still clutching the iron poker as she watched Shep, his clothes torn now, his eyes blazing with impotent fury, tumble over and over, down the steps into the basement.
Then, as if coming from the bottom of some vast well, she heard his voice rise from the darkness of the basement: “I’ll kill you! I swear I’ll kill you and that evil brat, too!”
The words galvanized Bettina, and her muteness fell away as she dropped the iron poker and strode to the top of the stairs. “She’s not evil!” she shouted into the darkness below. “She’s our daughter, Shep! Yours and mine! You fathered her when you raped me!” And as if all the fury pent up inside her since that terrible night nearly fifteen years ago had finally been released, Bettina slumped to the floor. “Our daughter,” she repeated over and over again. “our daughter … my daughter … my beautiful daughter …”
Then there was silence.
The howl of the wind died away.
The terrible stinking sludge was gone from the floor.
And all Bettina could hear was the beating of her own heart and the echo of her own words:
“… my beautiful daughter …”
The whole world was reeling around Shep. His body ached from the fall and he could barely breathe. The maelstrom around him was even worse in the cold basement. Dim lights—lights that barely let him see at all—swirled in every direction, and then he was thrown against a wall, and then some kind of door opened and he was sucked through. The door slammed shut behin
d him and it was as if the opening had never been there at all.
And then it was over. The careening forces around him stilled.
He lay sprawled out on the cement floor, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath, his mind reeling as he tried to make sense of what had happened.
He struggled to his feet. He was in a room—a room with concrete walls and heavy beams overhead.
And only one door.
Hesitantly, as if something were compelling him to do it, he opened the door, bracing himself against whatever might lie beyond it.
And the moment he cracked it open, he was sucked into another room.
The door slammed behind him and another appeared on another wall, but this time he tried to stay where he was.
It was impossible. As if his body were no longer controlled by his mind, he moved toward the opening in the wall to the right, and the nearer he drew to it, the stronger he felt the pull to the next room.
Doors opened and closed, vanished. Shep moved deeper into the maze, more lost with every twist and turn. It was as if he were lost in time and space itself, as if he were wandering a no-man’s-land, being pushed, pulled, twisted, turned. He went up steps, down stairs, around corners, across thresholds. He tried to keep count, tried to keep his bearings, tried to remember where he’d been.
It was no use.
For just an instant Shep wondered if this was how Nick had felt his entire life, but in the next instant his mind turned once more to himself.
The hell into which he’d fallen took on a strange rhythm:
Over and over.
Round and round.
In a circle, around a bend.
First turn right, then turn left.
Over and over
Over and over …
He was lost now, hopelessly lost, but he stumbled on.
Over this threshold through this door.
This way, that way, over there.
New noises:
The slam of a door.
The clang of metal crashing against metal.
Shep whirled.
There was only one door—a door with a barred window. But this door didn’t open as he approached.
He was locked in.
He backed up against the wall to steady himself, and now he heard a new sound. Footsteps—and voices! And they were coming closer!
There was jangling and a clattering of a key in a lock and then the door opened and three men, all wearing rubber aprons, entered the room.
“Where am I?” Shep whimpered as they approached him. “What’s going on?”
“Just take it easy,” one of the men replied. “You know what time it is.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Let’s get ahold of him, boys,” another of the men said, sounding almost bored. Then he turned to Shep. “Why do you want to do this every time? You give us trouble, I’ll have to call Warden Philips again.”
Two of the men grasped Shep’s arms and shoved him out of his cell.
Shep’s mind reeled. Who were these people? Their shoes were tattered and their clothes looked like costumes. “Let go of me!” he demanded, but the men ignored him, half carrying and half dragging him down a dank corridor.
On the walls, gaslights in tarnished brass sconces flickered.
“Where the hell am I?” Shep demanded again.
The voice of the third man came from behind him. “Same place as always—Shutters Lake. Only question is who’s crazier—the inmates or us guards.” Then the man’s voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Oh, sorry—Dr. Philips wants to call us ‘attendants.’”
The names hung in Shep’s mind. What were they talking about? Shutters Lake? Dr. Philips? The old prison—the place where they’d locked up the crazy people—had closed decades ago! Long before he was born; even before his parents had been born. And Dr. Philips—
“No!” Shep screamed, his mind rejecting the impossible idea it had just formed. “This is a joke, isn’t it?” His voice rose, a note of hysteria creeping into it. “It has to be a joke!”
Instead of answering his question, one of the men swung open a door and the other two manhandled him through it. Faint light streamed in through a very high window, and in the center of the room, on the stone floor, sat a large tub.
They stripped Shep of his clothes, and for the first time he saw what he had been wearing. Instead of the clothes he’d had on when he came to Bettina’s house, what they took off him now was something like a thin pajama.
Then he saw the chunk of ice floating in the bathtub.
And the truth of what they were about to do sank into Shep Dunnigan’s mind.
“No,” he pleaded. “Don’t do that—don’t put me in there.” They lifted him up and he stretched his legs and put his feet on the edges of the tub like a dog fighting against a bath.
But it did no good. The attendants overpowered him and forced him into the tub, and while two of them held him down, the third put a heavy wooden lid on the tub, a thick lid with a cutout that allowed only his head to be out of the water.
A moment later the board was strapped down to keep his body completely submerged, and a cold such as he’d never before even dreamed of began to penetrate his body.
He screamed with agony and tried to thrash his way free, but it was no good—the thick leather straps held fast, and all he succeeded in doing was scrape off the skin of his knees against the rough underside of the tub’s lid.
“Now calm down,” one of the attendants said, his words barely penetrating Shep’s agony. “You just think about why you’re here, and I’ll try not to forget you’re in there.”
Shep watched as they left the room, then closed and locked the door behind them. Then he filled his lungs with air and bellowed a single word: “Bettina!”
Her name only echoed back off the stone walls, and as the freezing cold of the water seeped into Shep Dunnigan’s body, the truth slowly seeped into his mind.
Bettina Philips couldn’t hear him. No one at all—at least no one he knew—could hear him. After all, how could they?
None of them would even be born for another century.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“She’s our daughter, Shep! Yours and mine! You fathered her when you raped me!” The words echoed in Sarah’s head. She and Nick were crouched low to the floor next to the door that led from the coal bin to the main part of the basement.
She’s our daughter… As Sarah recalled the words, the cacophony of fury raging through the ancient mansion faded into insignificance.
What was Bettina saying? Why would she say that?
“Sarah?” Nick whispered. “Sarah, we’ve got to find Bettina.”
His voice jerked her back to the present, and she felt him holding her trembling hand. When she tried to stand, her legs turned to jelly and the pain from her hip nearly made her cry out.
Nick steadied her until she regained her footing. When the howling fury of a few moments before faded away, he slowly opened the door that led to the rest of the basement.
As they stepped out of the coal bin, the basement fell utterly silent.
Nothing had been disturbed.
It was as if nothing had happened at all.
But everything had changed.
Still holding Sarah’s hand, Nick led her up the steep flight of stairs to the kitchen. It, too, looked exactly as it had before, and the only sound they could hear was the wind whistling outside and the snow hitting the windowpanes.
“Bettina?” Sarah called out. “Are you all right? Are you here?”
There was no answer.
They glanced uneasily at each other, then moved on through the dining room to the hallway, then into the old study. Bettina sat on a worn Victorian couch, her arms wrapped around herself, her dogs next to her. Her face was white and she was trembling.
Sarah approached her. “Are you all right?”
Though her face glistened with tears, Bettina nodded, and Sarah moved
closer.
“Are you really my mother?” she asked so softly that her words seemed borne on no more than the faintest wisp of breeze.
Bettina nodded again. “I don’t know why I didn’t realize it the day I met you. From the first moment I saw you—and saw your talent—I should have known.” Her eyes, wide and frightened, met Sarah’s. “I couldn’t keep you. Can you understand that? I had to do it—I had to give you up. I … I—” She couldn’t finish, and choking back a sob, she buried her face in her hands.
Sarah sat next to Bettina and took one of her hands in her own.
Taking a deep breath, Bettina looked up again. “I’m so sorry, Sarah,” she whispered. Then she turned to Nick. “I was—” She faltered, then: “It was your father, Nick,” she said. “He found me one day and—” Again she fell silent. “I tried to get away from him,” she whispered, almost as if to herself. “I tried so hard … so hard.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Nick said, his voice trembling. “Nobody gets away from my dad—not if he doesn’t want you to. He just—he just—” His voice cracked, he fell silent for a moment, then found the strength to go on. “He’s gone, isn’t he? I mean, he’s not coming back.”
Bettina shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Do you know why?” Nick asked. “I mean, do you know where he went?”
Bettina’s brows knit uncertainly. “I’m not sure he’s actually gone,” she said, picking her words carefully. “I think he’s somewhere close, but I don’t think he can ever get back here.” Sarah and Nick looked nervously at each other, and Bettina went on. “I don’t think either of you needs to be frightened. But I think there are people who do, and I think your father was one of them, Nick. This was the first time he’s been here since—well, since that night. And I think something in this house—some spirit, or force, or—” She shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what it is. But I think it understands people, and I think it deals with them.”
Nick moved to the sofa and sat on the other side of Bettina. Pyewackett instantly leaped into his lap, settled in and began purring, and Bettina slipped an arm around Sarah and drew her close.
