MOON FALL

by Tamara Thorne

  She rose, bones creaking, and went to the shelves where her herbs and oils were stored. Selecting several, she took them to the table, then lit a squat beeswax candle and recited a short protection spell aimed at Mark Lawson and his father. As an afterthought, she recited one for herself. Then, taking a pinch each of rosemary and monkshood, she began slowly to crumble the fragrant herbs above the candle flame.

  "John Lawson," she whispered, "hear me now, and hear me well. I am in your dreams, John. I am your dreams." The candle sputtered, then glowed more brightly. ''You must come to me, John, you must come with open mind and open heart, or your only son is doomed."

  The nightflyer was back, and she did her best to ignore its horrible cry. "See me, John, know me. Come to me before it is too late."

  They're angry, she thought as the creature screeched again. She heard scrabbling on her roof and another cry echoed down her chimney. I should have spread the salt again. The evil at St. Gertrude's had grown in strength in the last few years, as it always did when the twenty-fourth year drew near, and it was even stronger now that Halloween approached. It was the reason the salt she'd spread earlier was already losing its potency.

  There was scratching on her roof as a second nightflyer landed. A screech echoed down through her house, chilling her blood. giving her warning. Minerva, a solitary practitioner, had never been able to defeat Lucy and her demonic sisters, and as another screech filled the room, she questioned her powers more than ever before. No! That's what Lucy wants. Believe in yourself. Minerva! You can do it. You must do it!

  She took a deep breath and began reciting her spell again. "Hear me, John Lawson. See me in your dreams and I will show you what you must know."

  Thirty-two

  Gus Lawson and Frank Cutter stayed at Winesap's getting, as they liked to say, shit-faced, until eleven-thirty in the evening, when pretty Marlene had suggested they'd had enough. Probably, thought Gus, that was because he'd tried to pat her ruffled bottom. She hadn't liked that.

  It had taken half an hour for Moonfall's sole cab to show up at the tavern, and he and Frank had enjoyed the wait; although they often shared a beer or two, they hadn't had a buzz on like this for years. Gus was sitting alone in the back of the cab after Cutter was dropped at his modem house in the Heights, an area where all the streets curved and the houses had central air and heat and swimming pools.

  Frank Cutter's house was nicer than Gus's, but it didn't have a spot of character, except for the den, which was full of mounted fish, photos of his deceased wife, Flora, and their children and grandchildren, books, and a Meerschaum pipe collection that Gus secretly coveted.

  After John left, he and Frank had lightened up. Gus knew he'd upset his grandson, but wasn't really sorry: the youngster had spent his whole life mired in guilt about his brother, never suspecting that Gus himself felt the same way about Henry, John's father, Gus's son. Maybe he shouldn't have told John he wouldn't have, if he hadn't been drinking- but now he was glad it had come out. Maybe the knowledge would help John finally come to grips with Greg's death.

  And maybe he'd made things a little more dramatic than he should have, but deep in his heart, Gus really did feel that the women at St. Gertrude's had something to do with Henry's death and that the place was cursed. It was something an old Baptist shouldn't admit, and again, he wouldn't have if he hadn't been drinking. Well, what's done is done.

  As the taxi turned onto his street, he realized that what was really bothering him was that he was a little worried about what John might do about it, especially after he showed him the family tree. If I show it to him. Probably it was all coincidence, he told himself, as the beer fog began to clear from his brain; but maybe, just maybe, he'd put his grandson in danger, just like he had his son. ''You've got a big mouth, Gus Lawson."

  ' 'What'd you say?" the cabby asked.

  "That's the place, there, two houses up," Gus said, pulling out the twenty Marlene had pressed on him right after he'd tried to pat her behind. He'd have to send some flowers tomorrow; otherwise, she might never flirt with him again.

  Taking his change, he walked carefully up the octagonal paving stones toward the house, fishing in his pants pocket for his keys. He thought he'd left the porch light on, but the place was dark, and if it hadn't been for the brief glint of headlights as the cab turned around, he'd have had to try key after key in the lock. ''Thanks for the favor, Lord," he muttered, as he walked up the steps and across the wide front porch, the key ready.

  As if in reply, one of those horrible night birds screeched above, flying close enough for him to hear the heavy beat of its wings.

  Gus turned and gazed at the sky. He'd never seen the bird, but it was probably some sort of hawk, out looking for a stray poodle or something. French cuisine.

  He heard the cry again, farther away. Sometimes years went by without his hearing one of the damned things, but in other years, like this one, they were a frequent sound, especially this time of year. These were the birds that the gargoyle stories must have been based on; when he and Caspar Parker were kids, they used to tell each other the stories about the gargoyles and the old witch in the woods- there'd been one then, as well. Minerva, he assumed, was the daughter of that reclusive old woman, and he knew she was the object of the same stories about the baby-stealing gargoyles. How birds of prey and missing dogs and chickens, not to mention the occasional torn and mutilated goat in the petting zoo, had transformed into gargoyles and stolen babies and a witch, he had no idea.

  He heard one more cry, closer again, but didn't bother to look, instead quickly unlocking the front door, because you didn't buy beer, you rented it.

  He stepped into the darkened house and pulled the door shut then flipped on a light, sniffing. There was an odd, mildewed odor in the room. Now what? Maybe Frank's newer house didn't have character, but it wasn't the pain this old relic was. Probably the kitchen sink's backed up again. Crinkling his nose, he walked through the darkened living room and up the short hall to the bathroom, where be turned on the light and relieved himself. As he turned on the faucet to wash his hands, he shivered, hearing the bird screech again; it sounded as if it were right outside the window. He turned off the tap and turned, trying to see through the privacy glass. He jumped as the cry repeated.

  And then it stopped. Stupid old man, acting like a scared kid. He shook his head at his own foolishness.

  Back in the living room, be flipped on the lights and the television but didn't sit down to catch the last of Leno because the mildew smell was still strong. He went into the kitchen and the stench was worse there. Guess I was right about the clogged drain.

  He turned on the cold tap full blast and watched as the water swirled quickly down the drain. ''Hmm." Next be walked into the laundry room just off the kitchen and lifted the washer lid, but there were no wet clothes festering within. Back in the kitchen, he checked the trashcan, but it was almost empty.

  He couldn't think of anything else to check; he'd left several windows open and whatever it was must have wafted in on the breeze. It was either dissipating now, or be was used to it, so he zapped a cup of instant coffee in the microwave, carried it into the living room, and settled in his easy chair in front of his huge television.

  Conan O'Brien was just sitting down at his desk. Though he'd never admit it to anyone, the upstart talk-show host and his coy sidekick amused the heck out of him and he was glad it was on: at eighty-four, be didn't require much sleep anymore.

  He turned the sound up and settled back, sipping at his steaming coffee as Polly the NBC Peacock began trashing the other networks. It was Gus's favorite bit, and a moment later he was laughing aloud.

  Suddenly, in syrupy slow motion, he heard a dull explosion and watched the hot coffee spill in his lap as something thunked into the back of his head. It didn't hurt, but the coffee did, and for a millisecond, that intrigued him. He felt his head jerk roughly and looked up to see the television screen just as a big chunk of something red and white hit the
glass and stuck. His vision flickered as red spots sprayed the screen and the chunk of white- my head, that's a piece of my head!- began to slip down the screen.

  And then, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

  Thirty-three

  "Let me in! Let me in!"

  John could hear the old woman calling to him through the heavy closed door. She sounded worried, but still he was too afraid of her to let her in.

  "Let me in! Let me in!"

  "Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin!" he yelled, in a voice that trembled as much as his hands.

  "You're no child anymore, John Lawson, don't talk like one!" Minerva Payne called back sternly. "You have to let me in!"

  ''No. Go away!"

  ''You can't hide from your fears anymore. Your own child is in danger. Let me in!"

  "What did you do to him?" he called, approaching the door.

  "Nothing, you fool. But he'll die if you don't find enough courage to let me in! I'm here to help you save him. Open the door!"

  His hand clasped the doorknob. It was black iron and icy cold to the touch, frosted with cold. Startled, he jerked away, staring at it, at the heavy metal around it. Light shone through the old-fashioned keyhole just below the knob, blinding at first, then dimming, turning pink, then crimson, then turning to dark blood oozing through the lock, drizzling down the metal onto the heavy wood and down onto the floor, where more blood seeped in over the threshold.

  "Open the door, John. It's the only way."

  He was standing in a puddle of blood. ''Oh, God," he whispered, as the cold of the doorknob seeped into his flesh, into his bones.

  "It's the only way. You must let me in. You must listen to what I have to tell you. You have to save your son."

  He looked at the blood that was seeping coldly into the soles of his shoes. She's never hurt me, he thought, and Mark likes her. There's nothing to be afraid of ... except the blood ... the blood.

  It oozed up to his ankles now and it was going to fill his dark little house. Frantically he glanced around. No windows, no other doors, just this one that led to blood. And the old witch.

  He swallowed his fear and tried to turn the knob. It wouldn't budge; it was frozen in place. "I can't do it!" he called.

  "Yes, you can. Try harder."

  He twisted with all his might, but it did no good. ''Help me!" he called. "It won't turn."

  ''I can't help you until you open the door, John. You have to do that. Believe you can. Know you can, and you will!"

  Blood oozed halfway up his shins as he grabbed the knob in both hands and put all his weight into turning it. The blood was around his knees and rising fast. He'd drown in it if he couldn't open the door.

  He got afresh grip. "Whose blood is this?" he grunted, as he bore down on the knob.

  ''It's Lawson blood," Minerva called. ''It's Moonfall blood."

  The doorknob groaned and gave a fraction of an inch. The blood was up to his hips, his waist. He felt it like cold sludge, chilling his gut- climbing slowly, irrevocably, toward his heart- and he knew that it would drown his very soul. He yelled with effort and the doorknob turned another fraction of an inch. "Minerva?" he cried. "Minerva? Where are you?"

  "John?"

  He came awake with a start, his legs jerking off the desk, pushing him back in the precariously tilted chair. He leapt to his feet as the wooden chair toppled behind him, and, breathing hard, came out of a crouch and looked up into Jeff Thurman's shocked face, then down at his own feet and legs. There was no blood, but he could still feel the chill.

  "John? You all right?"

  "Yeah. I had a whopper of a nightmare."

  "I guess so."

  John followed his deputy's gaze to his chair. It lay in a tumble of wood slats on the floor. "Well, it wasn't too comfortable, anyway," he said, aware that Thurman was staring at him again. He took a deep breath, willed his voice and hands to stop shaking. The clock on the wall said five-thirty ... almost dawn. "How about helping me carry this out to the trash, Jeff? I'll go down to the city and buy a new one after the stores open."

  ''Sure. What were you doing here, anyway?" Thurman asked as he picked up the base and John gathered the slats.

  ''Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd do a little work." He forced a smile. ''Guess the sandman visited after all. I just wish he hadn't."

  Thirty-four

  Saturday had been lost to Sara. She spent the day resting in her room, sleeping, reading, and picking at the light meals the nuns brought her. There were no more ghostly visitations and her dreams were pleasant. At one point, Dr. Dashwood stopped by. For one brief moment, the sight of him made her anxious, but the panic quickly passed, especially when he gave her the news that the biopsy was negative and apologized for putting her through the procedure. After that, he listened to her heart and lungs and shined a penlight in her eyes, then declared that she would be fine before she knew it. The only "medicine" he'd brought were two chocolate truffles. When he gave them to her, his hand lingered on hers for a few seconds and his touch brought unexpected tingles of excitement.

  By evening she felt rested and nearly went down for dinner, then decided against it, realizing that she should enjoy her last certain hours of peace and quiet. Also, until she went back to see if Sheriff Lawson had discovered anything about Jenny Blaine's death, she wanted to talk to the sisters as little as possible, just in case she slipped and unknowingly said something she shouldn't.

  Today, Sunday morning, she awoke feeling completely herself, perhaps even a little better than usual. She'd overslept; her watch said it was nearly nine A.M., but in the dark windowless room, she'd at first thought it was early morning.

  Taking a shower was an unnerving experience. No one else was in the lavatory, which ordinarily would have pleased her, but as she stood in a stall, shampooing her hair, she couldn't help wondering whether she'd really seen the ghost, or just imagined it in the steamy mist. If it had been a ghost, which she doubted now, it couldn't have been Jenny, not with the way its face had changed from a suggestion of her friend's into something horrible and demonic. Worried, she had hurried through her shower, but nothing had happened, nothing at all.

  By the time she toweled herself dry, her confidence had grown. Vaguely she remembered how she'd gotten dizzy and lost consciousness during Dashwood's exam. Until then, she'd suspected she'd been drugged, but after the uneventful shower, she began to think that the doctor had been right when he later told her she'd simply had an anxiety attack brought on by all the stress of her arrival. And since he didn't have a clue as to just how much stress she was truly under, it seemed all the more plausible.

  She had wrapped herself in her thick blue terrycloth robe and hurried back to her room, where she dressed casually in black jeans, a red turtleneck, and a houndstooth blazer. After slipping into her black penny loafers, she dried and brushed her hair and applied a trace of lipstick, then slung her purse over her shoulder and headed downstairs.

  The dorm was relatively quiet, with only occasional voices of the students wafting softly from some of the open doors; no music was allowed in the rooms, nor were televisions, and then, as now, that made it seem like the sisters of St. Gertrude's wanted to keep their charges ignorant of the world outside the abbey.

  The only adult she spied was Sister Bibiana, busy keeping tabs on the girls in their rooms. There were many, she realized, passing the open doors: evidently as few attended chapel services today as in her time. The nun glanced up as Sara opened one of the entry doors, so she waved and smiled and stepped outside before Bibi could stop her and ask where she was going.

  Happily, she saw no one as she walked along the back of the school building toward the main entrance of the garage, but she could faintly hear eerie feminine voices singing some sort of mass inside the chapel. She peered toward the old stone building, her eyes drawn to the gargoyles perched like vultures on the comers and gables of the building. There was even one crouched atop the cross above the doors. She didn't remember ever
noticing the oddly placed creature before, but then, she hadn't looked very often. On the occasions when she had studied them, they seemed to have multiplied. Maybe there are more of them. She was sure she'd have noticed the one on the cross. Or maybe you're just losing your mind. She made herself look at the cross-sitting gargoyle again and for an instant thought she saw the stone head move, just a fraction of an inch. Maybe you need more rest. You're seeing things again ...

  Shaking off her fear, she turned briskly away from the chapel and walked across the perfect green lawn to the huge garage. She took her keys from her purse as she walked into the wide doorway of the old wooden building and headed for her car, parked in a stall halfway down.

  Walking along the center of the old stable, she saw an aging but lustrous black Cadillac, a wood-sided station wagon, circa 1970, a Geo only a few years old, a black BMW, an ancient pickup truck, and a fairly new one. The stalls on the other side contained lawnmowers, both hand and riding, a small tractor, and a plethora of other gardening tools, fertilizers, and chemicals. She came to the stall where she'd parked the Sentra and stopped. It was still there, but there were several sacks of manure on the hood, plus a spade, two rakes, and a broom leaning against it and a Rototiller blocking it. "What the- ? Damn!"

  She approached the sacks of manure and saw that one was leaking brown crumbs from a rip in the plastic. "Damn." She couldn't possibly move them herself and remain presentable."Is anyone here?'' she called, her voice echoing down the long dark building. "Anyone?"