by John Saul
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 tig
htened 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.
