Red Rain

by R. L. Stine

Mark shook his head. “I’ll explain everything. But you’ve got to get these twins. I knocked them out. Get them. Behind the desk. Watch out . . . Watch out for the eyes.”

  The agents drew their weapons and he stood back. He watched them go into a stalking stance as they approached the desk.

  “The twins. They’re on the floor. I . . . I knocked them out. We got them. We got them!”

  Two agents lurched behind the desk. They appeared to freeze, as if someone had pushed a pause button. Slowly, one of them raised his gaze to Mark. “No one here. No one.” He glanced at the open window. “We’re too late, I think. They got away.”

  72

  Mark saw Lea walking determinedly down the middle of the Sag Harbor pier, eyes searching for him among the two rows of parked cars. He could see her distress from her body language, arms tensed at her sides, hands balled into fists, shoulders slumped, strides clipped and rapid.

  He waited at the far end of the pier, the meeting place he had suggested that morning. Behind him, the water of the bay lapped darkly against the pilings below. The white yachts lining both sides of the pier stood as still as if on land, too big to be rocked by the gentle waves. One enormous yacht had a red Porsche parked on its wide stern and white-uniformed staff carrying breakfast trays to the main cabin.

  Mark stepped out from behind a black Mercedes SUV, watching the pier behind Lea, making sure she hadn’t been followed.

  The morning had started out cloudless and bright, but now the sky was leaden with acrid smoke. Mark glanced at his watch. Not quite eleven o’clock, and the pier was pretty empty. In an hour or so, as lunchtime approached, the parking spaces would all be filled. He watched men unload shrimp and lobsters from the back of a white panel truck and carry them across the pier into the small, shingled Dock House clam bar.

  He took a deep breath, expecting to smell salt water. But sour smoke burned his nose. That fire must still be out of control.

  A man and a teenage boy walked past carrying fishing rods. The boy pointed to a spot on the side of the pier, but the man waved him off, and they kept walking. No one else in sight. Mark slid out from the SUV and called to Lea.

  She stopped short, as if surprised to see him there. Then she came running, dark hair bobbing at the sides of her face, no smile for him.

  “Lea—”

  “Oh, Mark, here you are.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. He wanted to squeeze her tight, hold her there for a long time. She was his old life, his good life, and he desperately wanted to hold on to her. He kissed her, then pressed his stubbly cheek against her face.

  “Mark.” She pulled away, out of his arms. “I got your text. You’re okay? How did you get away from the school?”

  “The FBI agents didn’t recognize me. I slipped out while they were searching the classrooms.” He held onto her. “Thank God the kids are okay.”

  He felt her shudder. “I saw Ira and Elena. I talked with them. They’re fine. Roz took them home. It’s so wonderful, Mark. You got them all out.”

  She raised her face to him. “The twins? Did you see them? Are they—?”

  “They got away. I knocked them out, Lea. I . . . I slammed their heads together. I think it broke their spell over the kids. But they escaped. I don’t know where—”

  “Oh, Mark . . . you were so brave, sweetheart. But . . .”

  But?

  He waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. When she raised her eyes to him, he could tell she was holding something back. She changed the subject. “Where did you stay all weekend?”

  “At Nestor’s. In his poolhouse. The police came to the house, but they didn’t search the poolhouse. I hid in a tiny closet. But they never searched back there.”

  Her dark eyes locked on his. “Thank God you’re safe. You look horrible.”

  “I . . . haven’t slept much. I’ve been worried—”

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “So much to tell you.” More tears welled in her eyes. “The twins. I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I didn’t know—”

  A green BMW pulled in beside the Mercedes. Mark guided Lea away toward the Dock House.

  “It’s our last morning, Mark.”

  Her words sent a chill to the back of his neck. He squinted at her, unable to respond.

  “Maybe we could try to have a normal morning, okay? Wouldn’t that be nice? A last normal morning?”

  “Lea, what are you saying? You’re talking in puzzles. Tell me about the twins. What do you know about them? What did you find out?”

  She ran a finger down his cheek. It made his skin tingle. He had rescued the children. They were safe. Why were her eyes so sad? What was she hiding from him?

  “A normal hour or two,” Lea said. “Look how pretty it is. The white yachts, the pier stretching into the bay, the seagulls against the sky. This is one of my favorite spots in the Hamptons. It always reminds me of Sausalito. Remember that weekend in Sausalito? That restaurant down by the water? We were so young.”

  He grabbed her shoulder. “Lea, you need to tell me what’s going on. Why are you talking about Sausalito? Why are you acting like this? You are really frightening me.”

  She forced a tense smile and turned away. “I think the waffle cone place is open. Let’s get waffle cones, Mark, and maybe walk through town. You know. Like a normal couple. Just stroll aimlessly up and down Main Street and people-watch, the way we used to. We can do it, Mark. The police won’t be looking for you anymore.”

  “No. Not till you explain to me.” He grabbed her by the arms and locked his eyes on hers, trying to see her thoughts.

  She turned away, as if his stare was too much to bear. “I . . . I’m so sorry, Mark. It’s all my fault, don’t you see. That’s why I feel so bad. I feel so bad for you, Mark. Especially for you. Because you’ve been so wonderful and loving and trusting. Yes, trusting. And I . . . I’ve ruined everything.”

  “But—how? What are you saying?”

  A sob burst from deep inside her. “Don’t you understand, darling? This is the last hour? It’s our last hour. Don’t you see, sweetheart?”

  “No. It can’t be. Come here.” He tried to hug her but she stood rigid, her dark eyes finally coming to rest on his face.

  “Don’t you see, Mark? I guess you can’t. I guess I have to say it. Okay. Okay. I’ll tell you. I died on Cape Le Chat Noir. I died there, honey. I’m so sorry. I died in the hurricane.”

  73

  Mark felt a tingle of fear run down his back. Overhead, a seagull screamed as if reacting to Lea’s words. A burst of wind off the bay ruffled Lea’s hair.

  He held onto the sleeve of her sweater. “Lea, you’re not making any sense. We need to get you home. The stress—”

  “No. It’s true, Mark. I . . . didn’t want to tell you, darling. I suspected it all along. Didn’t you notice how different I was when I returned from the island? I suspected it. I fought it. I fought it every day. I hoped against hope. But I knew. I knew. And then Martha emailed me . . .”

  “Lea, you’re not dead. You’re standing here with me. You’re just very distraught, and we need to find you help. I know several good doctors—”

  Another seagull cry rang in Mark’s ears. He glanced up and saw two fat gulls circling them low overhead.

  “I didn’t want to leave you. I didn’t want to leave Ira and Elena.” Tears glistened in her dark eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  “You don’t have to leave. I’ll take care of you.”

  “No.” Her voice turned sharp. “No. You can’t. I have proof, Mark. I have proof right here. I know you don’t want to see it, honey. Telling you this . . . doing this to you . . . it’s like I’m dying again.”

  “Stop saying that!” He didn’t mean to sound frantic. How had she become so delusional? Did she see something unspeakable on the island? Is that why her mind has snapped?

  Lea fumbled with her small black leather bag. Some makeup tubes and a mirror fell out.
The mirror shattered on the asphalt.

  Seven years bad luck, Mark thought. But he immediately scolded himself for having such a superficial thought when his wife was in such distress.

  She pulled out some folded-up papers and uncreased them with trembling hands. She made no attempt to wipe away the tears that glistened on her face.

  “Here. Oh, here. I’m so sorry. Martha sent these. I’m so sorry, Mark.” She pushed the papers at him. Photographs, he saw.

  “This is proof?”

  She nodded.

  He raised the first photo to his face. Black-and-white, very grainy. His eyes focused on a scene of destruction. Fallen houses. Debris everywhere. And then his eyes settled on the two blond boys standing forlornly in the foreground.

  “The twins?” He gazed over the photo at her. “Samuel and Daniel? Taken after the hurricane?”

  “Oh, Mark.” A long sigh escaped her throat. “Yes. The twins. Taken after the hurricane . . . but a different storm, Mark. A different storm. The hurricane of 1935.”

  The papers nearly flew from his hand. “Lea, please. You’re not making sense.”

  “The second photo, too. I am making sense.” She struggled to pull out the second sheet for him. “Martha is a photo researcher. I told you that. She found these photos from 1935. Then she emailed me, Mark. Yesterday. She emailed me all the details. She found the truth, Mark. You won’t like it, sweetheart. It’s all so sad and horrible. You won’t like it but you have to hear it now.”

  Mark took the photo and gazed at the twins standing bare-chested in the midst of the rubble. “I don’t believe it,” he said softly, “but let’s say it’s true. What does it mean, Lea? Tell me.”

  She nodded, tangles of hair, wet from tears, falling down the sides of her face. “There’s a ritual on Le Chat Noir. It’s called Revenir. It means return. It’s performed by a priest.” She stopped and pushed his hand away. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not crazy, Mark. I wish I was crazy but I’m not. Just let me finish.”

  He took a step back, the photos fluttering in his hand. “Okay. Sorry.”

  “The priest who performs the Revenir rite can bring back the dead. It sounds insane but I saw it. I saw it done. I didn’t believe it when I was there. But it’s true. He brings back the dead, Mark. And in that hurricane of 1935, the priest brought back the twins. The twins died in the hurricane, and the priest brought them back. But—”

  He grasped her shoulders gently. “Take a breath. I’m listening. I won’t interrupt you. But you’re forgetting to breathe.”

  She swallowed. Her chin trembled. More tears glistened in her eyes. “The priest brought the boys back, but he did it all wrong. There were so many deaths to deal with. He messed it up, Mark. He . . . he waited too long. The boys were dead too long. And when they came back, they had all of death’s evil in them. They looked the same. They seemed the same. They were alive again, but they were alive with evil.”

  What am I going to do? I’ve got to get her to a hospital. I know some doctors who can treat this. I can make some calls.

  “The twins came back to life with evil powers, Mark. Hypnotic powers and powers to kill. The priest brought them back from the world of the dead. But he made mistakes. He told Martha he made mistakes. The boys have been the same age since 1935. Martha says they lived by themselves all these years, waiting . . . waiting for someone to take them off the island so they could work their evil. And I . . . I was the one. I brought them both here. I brought them into our family, our lives, and, and . . . I’m the only one who can take them back.”

  “Lea, stop. Please. Please stop. Let’s not talk about it anymore. How about that waffle cone? Would that make you feel better?”

  Anything to make her stop talking this insane nonsense. Why didn’t I see that she was having a breakdown? How could I not have seen?

  “No. It’s too late for ice cream now, honey. Look at the third photo. Martha sent a third photo. I knew what it would show. I mean, I had a strong feeling. But there it is. There’s my proof, Mark. I . . . I didn’t want to show it to you. I don’t want to leave. But I don’t have a choice.”

  “You’re not leaving. You’re not going anywhere. Stop saying that. I love you. The kids love you. They need you. We won’t let you go anywhere.”

  She pushed the papers. “Just look.”

  The third photo was in color. It showed a strange-looking man in a red robe. He had a large blue tattoo on the top of his bald head. He had one long-fingered hand raised . . . raised over Lea. Yes. He was leaning over Lea, who sat in a chair with her eyes closed, head tilted back.

  Mark raised his eyes to her. “What does this prove?”

  “I died in Martha Swann’s house. Part of the roof came down in the hurricane. It landed on me, and I died. Martha and James—they knew where to find the priest. They risked their lives out in the storm. They brought him and he performed the Revenir rite on me. I came back, Mark. He brought me back. But I wasn’t the same. Much as I tried, I wasn’t the same. I’ve been obsessed . . . obsessed with death. I . . . don’t really feel as if I belong here.”

  Her shoulders trembled. A sob racked her entire body. “If only I hadn’t brought the twins home, maybe we could have gotten along for a while. Maybe I could have pretended. But . . . I ruined our lives. If only . . .” Her voice trailed off and she grabbed him and pulled his arms around her and pressed her tear-drenched face against his chest.

  He held her tight. The photos fluttered across the pier. He wanted to wrap her up and keep her safe. He knew she could be okay again. Of course she could. The island hurricane had been a terrible trauma. So much horror—it could affect anyone, especially someone as sensitive as Lea.

  Her head pressed against him, he saw the twins over her shoulder. He saw them walk past the old colonial windmill near the street and come toward them, down the center of the pier.

  Lea turned, as if sensing they were approaching.

  The boys strode rapidly side by side, past the Dock House, past the rows of parked cars on both sides, their eyes straight ahead on Mark and Lea. Mark felt Lea shudder.

  As the twins drew close, he called to them. “How did you get here? What are you doing here?”

  Daniel’s answer came back in his high little-boy’s voice. “We came to hurt you.”

  74

  Mark studied their faces. Hard, jaws set tight, eyes like frozen blue ponds.

  If they were twelve in 1935, they’d be nearly ninety years old.

  Ridiculous.

  “Come here, boys.” Lea stepped in front of Mark and stretched out her arms. “Come here. How did you find us?”

  They hung back. “We saw you at the school, Mum. We followed you here. Pa tried to hurt us. Now we need to hurt Pa.”

  Both boys had dark bruises on the sides of their faces.

  “Pa did a bad thing,” Samuel said.

  “Now, wait—” Mark’s breath caught in his throat. “Let’s put a stop to this right now. Answer me. What did you think you were doing in that school?”

  They ignored him, eyes on Lea. “Pa did a bad thing,” Daniel said.

  “A bad thing,” Samuel repeated. “Pa hurt us. We were ruling the school. But Pa ruined everything.”

  Mark felt his face grow hot. “Stop saying that. I . . . had to stop you.”

  “Mark had no choice,” Lea told them. She stretched out her arms again. “Come here. I know how hard it’s been for you boys. I know the whole story. Please—come to me. Let me give you a big hug.”

  “We can’t have a hug, Mum,” Daniel replied, almost sadly. “We have to hurt Pa now.” He turned to Samuel. “Are you ready, Sammy lad?”

  Mark uttered a sharp cry when he saw Samuel’s eyes blaze.

  “Move away, Mum,” Daniel warned.

  “No. Stop,” Lea protested. “Listen to me, boys. We need to talk. The three of us have to stick together now.”

  “Move away, Mum. We don’t want to put the burn on you, too.”

  T
he fiery glow of the boy’s eyes was so bright, it brought tears to Mark’s eyes. Samuel swung his head around, and a blast of heat grazed Mark’s chest.

  In that second, Mark’s questions were answered, and he knew that Lea was telling the truth. He understood how the murders had been done. He understood that the twins had murdered, scorched and murdered. And now he felt the searing heat from Samuel’s eyes burn his chest.

  They’re going to kill me now.

  He lowered his head and took off.

  “Samuel—stop it!”

  He heard Lea’s frightened plea over the pounding thuds of his shoes on the asphalt pier. He didn’t turn around.

  A blazing burst of pain exploded on his back. He heard his shirt sizzle and felt his skin erupt in a circle of fire. Mark dropped to his knees and rolled toward the row of parked cars across the pier. Slid between two cars as another scorching beam cut the air. The blue Honda beside him burst into flames.

  With a cry, Mark jumped to his feet. Gasping from the pain that radiated over his back, he stumbled toward the tiny shingled Dock House. When he ducked under another red ray of fire, it sailed over his head and died in the water beyond the pier.

  Lea’s shrill screams . . . Daniel’s shouted instructions to Samuel . . . the boys’ pattering footsteps as they pursued him—all became a blur of sound beneath the bass-drum pounding in his chest.

  Where am I running? How can I escape them?

  He couldn’t think straight. No time to make a plan. The terrifying beam from Samuel’s eyes could barbecue him in seconds. And as that thought raced through his mind, he also realized that Lea was probably telling the truth about herself. And that he could lose her.

  Lose her. Oh no. Oh no. Lose her.

  A hoarse cry escaped his throat as he started to heave himself through the open door of the food shack. He thought better of it. Wheeled around and ran crazily, off-balance, in a wild stagger, and stumbled to the far side of the little building—just as it burst into flames.

  He heard shrieks of horror, turned, and saw three or four workers run out, pushing each other as they fell through the doorway, crying and shouting their shock and horror. The long apron on a young red-headed woman was on fire. She struggled with the straps, then dropped to the ground on her belly, trying to smother the flames.