Black Creek Crossing (43 page)

The eyes stopped moving, but their hypnotic gaze still held Marty pinned to the spot where he stood. Seconds passed—seconds that felt like minutes—but still Marty couldn’t move.

He felt the creature tensing, could almost see it readying itself to leap at him, almost feel its claws and fangs sinking into his flesh.

As his fear coalesced into panic, a broken howl of anguish rose in his throat, and finally he managed to lash out with his foot at the staring eyes.

The eyes vanished, and then Marty was running, bolting through the blackness, driven as much by his own panic as the terror of what might be pursuing him. But he lost his footing, pitched forward, and fell face first into the drainage ditch that ran next to the road. Swearing, he pulled himself up to his knees, wiping the muck from the ditch away from his eyes with his sleeve. A sob of pain mixed with fear and frustration rose in his throat, and he crawled back onto the road, bracing himself for the attack he knew was sure to come. He was just starting to haul himself back to his feet when the moon came out again and the wind died away. Marty blinked in the brightness of the silvery light, and searched for the creature that had stalked him only a moment ago.

Nothing.

He was alone on the road.

He peered in every direction, then began edging cautiously along the road. But with every step he took, he imagined that something was behind him, and the skin on the back of his neck began to crawl until he spun around, braced to defend himself against whatever might be behind him.

But there was only the night.

He felt another sob rise in his throat, and moved out into the center of the road, terrified that whatever was stalking him was hidden in the trees.

He was stumbling now, nearly tripping over his own feet, and another sob threatened to strangle him. Then, in the distance, he saw a light glowing. His first instinct was to turn and run, to try to race back into whatever safety the darkness might offer. Then he realized that this time the light was not the terrible glowing of the creature’s eyes, but the porch light of his own house.

Sucking in a breath deep enough to break through the terror that had built inside him, he ran again, but this time he wasn’t running away from something, but toward the safety of his house.

Halfway across his own front yard he stopped once more.

Stopped, and gazed at the house.

And once more he recalled Father Mulroney’s words.

But now, with the sky clear and the moon bright, and nothing peering at him out of the darkness, he was able to turn away the fear those same words had brought only a few minutes ago.

“Crap,” he whispered as he continued toward the front door. “Nothin’ but a pile of crap.”

Marty wasn’t sure exactly when the voice had begun whispering to him. The house had been silent when he slipped in through the back door, and for a moment he’d had the eerie feeling that the house was empty, that somehow Myra and Angel had vanished while he was gone. But that was impossible—where would they go? He turned on the light, and headed for the refrigerator, figuring one more beer couldn’t hurt him.

But where earlier there had been most of a six-pack on the bottom shelf, there now was nothing. Frowning, Marty searched the refrigerator more carefully.

No beer.

Suspicion growing in his mind, he went to the sink, pulled open the cabinet below it, and peered into the wastebasket. Sure enough, there were five empty beer bottles, and they weren’t just tossed in as he would have done. Instead, they were laid out side by side, exactly the way Myra would have done it after pouring the contents down the drain.

Bitch!

His first impulse was to go back out and find another six-pack—or maybe even a whole case—then sit and drink the whole thing just to show her. In the end, though, he just dug around in the cupboards until he found her cooking sherry and finished that off instead.

Then, his stomach feeling sour, he went upstairs, peeled off his clothes, and slid into bed beside Myra.

If she was awake—and he was pretty sure she was—she didn’t say anything, and when he edged closer to her, snuggling up against her, she let out a muffled groan and turned away.

The hell with her—who needed her anyway?

He rolled over and closed his eyes, but as Myra’s breathing finally fell into the gentle rhythm of sleep, he still lay awake.

Then the voice came out of the darkness, so soft at first he barely heard it. “
It’s time
.
.
.
” the voice whispered. “
.
.
.
you know it’s time
.
.
.

“
.
.
.
now.
.
.
.
” the voice pressed.
“It’s time
.
.
.
you know it’s time.
.
.
.”

Marty rolled over again.

“
You want to do it,
” the voice whispered.
“You have to do it
.
.
.
you know you do
.
.
.”

Marty’s eyes opened.

“
.
.
.
now.
.
.
.
” the voice whispered.
“Do it now.
.
.
.”

He got up from the bed and left the bedroom, pulling the door shut so quietly there was barely the faintest click to disturb Myra’s sleep. . . .

Chapter 38

NGEL LAY IN THE DARKNESS, LISTENING.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been in bed, or whether she’d slept or not. But she must have slept, because the memory of the dreams she’d had was as fresh in her mind as if they’d actually happened, and happened only a few moments ago. They weren’t at all like the dreams that made no sense and faded away the moment she awoke, leaving her with nothing more than a vague memory of having dreamed, but no memory at all of what the dream was actually about. No, the dreams she’d had this night were different.

She’d been on the road, and it was night, and even though the moon was blotted out by a thick layer of clouds, she could see a figure in the darkness ahead of her. She knew it was her father, even though his shape was no more than a faint silhouette and his features were utterly lost in shadows. But tonight she felt none of the fear of him that had been growing in her every day since they’d moved into their little house. The figure drew closer, and still she felt no sense of danger. Then, as the wind began to grow, the clouds broke and the light of the moon flooded through. Her father stopped, and she instinctively moved toward him. But then, as the moon fell full on him, she hesitated.

Instead of the clothes her father had been wearing when he stumbled out of the house a few hours ago, the figure ahead of her was clad almost entirely in black, with a close-fitting coat with a broad collar, and lapels buttoned up almost to the throat.

The face wasn’t her father’s either. It was longer, and narrower, and had a sort of pinched look to it.

He was staring at her now, and she could see the fear in his eyes. But why was he frightened? It was she who had been frightened of him this afternoon, and yesterday, and the day before that. Why—

Once again the clouds scudded over the moon, and the figure vanished into the blackness.

But suddenly she could see it again, only now she was looking up at it, as if she were lying on the ground.

And even though the moonlight was gone, she could see almost as well as she could during the day. Except everything was black and white, with no color at all.

Her father was staring at her again, backing away, and then he started running. As she watched, he ran off the road, tripped, and plunged face first into the ditch between the road and the forest.

“Dad!” she started to call out.

It was the sound of her own voice that awakened her from the dream, but the odd thing was, when she awoke, her heart wasn’t pounding and she felt none of the terror that had seized her when the other dreams held her in their grip. And instead of feeling a sense of relief to find herself in her own bed in her own room, she felt vaguely surprised, as if she shouldn’t be there at all. Only a second or two ago she was certain she’d been out in the road.

She’d gotten up and gone to the window, and seen her father coming across the lawn just as if he too had stepped out of her dream and into reality. Except now he was wearing the right clothes again, and when the moonlight spilled onto his face for a moment, she recognized him clearly.

As he headed around the corner of the house to the back door, she hurried back to bed, slipped in, and silently offered up a prayer to whatever saint might be listening that tonight her father wouldn’t come into her room. She pulled the covers up close around her neck and listened.

She heard him rummage around in the kitchen.

Heard him come upstairs.

She held her breath, her heart pounding, and waited.

He went into the room where her mother was sleeping.

Angel breathed again.

But still she didn’t sleep, for every other night in which her father had crept into her room, he’d gone to bed first.

Gone to bed, and waited until her mother was asleep.

Angel waited.

Outside, the wind began to rise again, and then the moonlight faded away as the clouds once again began racing across the sky.

Angel tried to shut out the sound of the wind sighing in the trees beyond her window, tried to focus her ears only on whatever sounds might be coming from within the house.

Seconds crept by, and turned into minutes, and every minute felt like an eternity.

He was asleep
.
.
.
he must be asleep.

And if he was asleep, it was safe for her to sleep.

She felt her muscles relax.

And then she heard it!

A faint creaking sound, so soft she almost missed it.

Had it come from inside the house? Maybe not. Maybe it came from outside. Maybe one of the huge old maples had a cracked branch and—

It came again, and this time there was no mistaking it. The creaking had come from inside the house.

Angel froze, willing her heart to remain calm so its throbbing wouldn’t drown out any sound that might betray whatever danger was creeping through the house.

Again she waited, straining her ears, unconsciously holding her breath.

Nothing.

Maybe she’d been wrong—maybe she hadn’t really heard anything at all! Maybe whatever it was had come from outside. Slowly letting out the breath she hadn’t known she was holding, she once more let herself relax.

And the sound came again.

This time she was certain it was right outside her door, and she had to fight to keep the scream that was building in her throat from erupting.

But maybe she should scream! Maybe she should scream as loud as she could, so her mother would wake up and—

Then she remembered what had happened when she tried to tell her mother about what her father was doing. And tonight, her father would just say he’d been worried about her and was listening to make sure she was all right.

And her mother would believe him.

Biting her lips, she held back her cry.

And heard the soft click of the door opening.

The squeal of its hinges as someone pushed it open.

The wind cleared the clouds away from the moon, and a silvery glow flooded through the window.

And Angel saw the same figure standing in her doorway that she’d seen standing in the road in her dream.

But she was awake now, and it wasn’t a dream, and even though the figure was wearing the strange black coat with the wide collar and lapels and didn’t even look like her father, she knew that it
was
her father.

She could feel him looking at her, feel his eyes peeling away the blanket and the sheet, stripping off her pajamas.

She clutched at the covers, holding them as tight around her neck as she could, but still felt as if she was lying naked on the bed, with her father gazing at her.

The figure moved, stepping into the room.

No,
Angel cried silently.
Oh, please, no!

The figure moved closer, and once again her heart was racing, and she shrank back into the pillows and prayed she could just disappear and—

Long fingers with cracked and torn nails closed on the bedding, and Angel felt it being pulled away.

Now the hand was reaching for her pajamas.

Just as the fingers were about to close on the thin material that covered her breast, she focused her mind the way she had that afternoon and visualized her father hurtling through the door.

But instead of flying backward as he had that afternoon, this time her father only hesitated.

His hand trembled in the air a few inches in front of her.

In the dim silvery light spilling through the window, she could see him struggling.

Then his hand came closer.