Nathaniel

by John Saul

And all his memories of Nathaniel had returned. He could remember everything he had talked about with Nathaniel, every word Nathaniel had told him.

  And he knew he had disobeyed Nathaniel.

  He moved slowly around the corner of the barn to the side door. When he had achieved his goal, he stopped for a few moments and gazed out into Potter's Field, but the light was gone now, and the darkness of the night was once more complete. All he could see was the silhouette of the forest against the night sky, and even that was little more than a vague line across the horizon. Above, he could see the stars; beneath, there was nothing but blackness.

  Creeping as quietly as he could, he slipped through the darkness to the front of the barn.

  Mr. Findley's lights were still on, and once, through the curtains, Michael saw the form of the old man himself, pacing restlessly across his kitchen floor. But no dogs barked, and the silence of the night remained undisturbed. Michael returned to the side door, removed its bar, and slipped inside the barn.

  The barn was filled with a musky odor that made Michael want to sneeze, but he resisted it. And even though he could see nothing, he moved through the blackness with the same confidence he would have felt if it had been broad daylight. Somewhere in the darkness, Nathaniel was waiting for him.

  And then came the words, whispered in that odd toneless voice that seemed to originate deep inside his own head.

  "Outside, Michael. I want to go outside."

  Michael froze in the darkness, knowing that Nathaniel was close to him, very close.

  "Wh-where are you?"

  "I am here, right next to you. Now we will go outside."

  As if an alien force was moving him, Michael started back toward the door. A moment later, with Nathaniel beside him, he was outside again in the fresh night air.

  "It smells good." For the first time that night, the voice came through Michael's ears, and he turned to face Nathaniel. Suddenly the night seemed brighter, and he looked curiously at Nathaniel's clothes.

  They looked old-fashioned, and they didn't seem to fit very well.

  "Where'd you get those clothes?" he asked. "Are they from a store?"

  Nathaniel looked puzzled. "Someone made them for me," he said as he carefully placed the door bar back in its brackets. Then, before Michael could ask him another question, Nathaniel started off into Potter's Field.

  "They are here," Nathaniel said softly, pointing to one of the stones that marked the children's graves. "Can you feel them, Michael? Can you feel the children around you?"

  And strangely, Michael realized that he could feel something. It was almost as if he and Nathaniel were not alone in the field; all around him he could feel strange presences, and on the edge of his consciousness he thought there were voices, voices he couldn't quite hear. They weren't like Nathaniel's voice, clear and strong even when Nathaniel wasn't speaking out loud. These voices were soft, indistinct, but there was something about them that made Michael feel sad. They were lonely and abandoned, and Michael wanted to help them.

  "Who are they?" he finally asked.

  "My mother's children," Nathaniel whispered softly. "Abby's children."

  "But why are they here?"

  "My father kills them," Nathaniel replied. "My father comes for them, one by one, and brings them out here. But tonight we will kill my father."

  "Kill him," Michael repeated, his voice suddenly as toneless as Nathaniel's.

  "If we don't, he will kill us," Nathaniel whispered. "And he is here, tonight. He was looking for you, Michael. He knew you were coming tonight, and he was looking for you. The light in the field, Michael. It was my father." He stopped talking and crouched down for a moment. When he straightened up, there was a rifle in his hands. "He was going to kill you with this," he said.

  Michael stared at the gun, and knew immediately where he'd seen it before. Still… "He won't—" he protested, but even as he uttered the words, he knew they weren't true.

  Nathaniel had been staring off toward the river, but now his head swung around, and his blue eyes fixed on Michael, holding him in their grip.

  "He killed your brothers and sisters, Michael."

  Michael felt fear begin to grow in him. "I—I don't have any brothers or sisters," he whispered.

  "Here," Nathaniel breathed. "Here around you are your brothers and sisters. And there will be more."

  There will be more.

  His mother. His mother was pregnant; very soon she was going to have a baby—a brother or a sister for him. So Nathaniel was right. In the darkness, he nodded. Nathaniel's powerful eyes released him from their hold, and he turned away once again.

  They moved quickly now, and Michael had no trouble avoiding the tangle of vegetation that overran the field. Though he was seeing with his own eyes, it was as if Nathaniel was showing him the way. They climbed over the fence. Silently, confidently, Nathaniel stepped into the trees, with Michael close behind him. And even here, though nothing in the quality of the starlight had changed, Michael found he could see clearly.

  Then, from close by the river, he heard a low growl and knew without being told that it was Shadow. Ahead of him, Nathaniel came to a stop. He turned around to face Michael once again, his hypnotic gaze drawing Michael's spirit close.

  "Will you help me?" he asked.

  Almost unwillingly, Michael nodded.

  "He's nearby, Michael. Ahead, by the river. Come." They moved slowly now, slipping from tree to tree. Every second Shadow's menacing snarl grew louder. And then, through the trees ahead, Michael saw his grandfather.

  Amos felt his heart pounding and tried to think how long he had been here, trapped against the river, held at bay by the dog who never made a move to attack him, never came close enough for Amos to strike out at him with the flashlight, yet never dropped his vigilance, but

  instead paced back and forth, his head low and his tail drooping, his eyes flashing in the starlight, a steady snarl raging in his throat.

  In the darkness behind the dog, Amos sensed a movement. "Who's there?" he called out. "Is someone there?" Then, sure that he knew who it was lurking in the woods, he forced his voice into a tone of command. "I know you're there, Michael. Come out and call off your dog."

  In the woods, Michael stiffened as he heard his name, but suddenly he heard Nathaniel's voice, heard it as he had heard it so many times before, emanating from within his own head.

  "Say nothing. Say nothing, and do nothing."

  But he knows I'm here, Michael thought. He called my name, and he knows I'm here.

  "Wish him dead."

  Nathaniel moved forward through the darkness, and Michael stayed where he was, watching and listening, watching with the strange clarity of Nathaniel's vision, and listening to the soft sounds of Nathaniel's instructions.

  "Wish him dead."

  The seconds crept by—each of them, to Michael, an eternity.

  An unnatural silence seemed to fall over the night. Shadow, his growl dying on his lips, suddenly lay down on the ground, his ears up, his eyes still fixed on Amos.

  Amos, too, sensed the change in the atmosphere, and suddenly felt his skin begin to crawl. Whatever was out there, he was suddenly certain, it was not Michael, and it was coming for him.

  With shaking fingers, he pressed the switch on the flashlight and began playing its beam over the forest.

  And then Amos saw him.

  Standing perfectly still, his face a pale mask in the white light of the torch, his blue eyes wide and steady—the same blue eyes of all the Halls—the figure of the oddly dressed boy seemed to Amos to have about it the calmness of death.

  "W-who are you?" he asked, forcing the words from his throat. Suddenly he was having difficulty breathing, and his heart was pounding with a fury that frightened him almost as much as the visage that glared at him with malevolent eyes from a few yards away.

  The words suddenly filled the night.

  "I am Nathaniel."

  Amos, staggered. "No," he gasped. "No. Natha
niel's dead. Nathaniel's been dead for a hundred years. Who are you? Tell me who you are!"

  Again, the same words: "I am Nathaniel."

  Amos staggered, and the flashlight dropped from his trembling hands.

  Michael, still rooted to the spot where Nathaniel had left him, watched as his grandfather sank to his knees, and listened as Nathaniel whispered to him once again:

  Wish him dead.

  Then, as Amos clutched at his chest, his terrified eyes still fixed on the spot where the apparition stood, Michael began to feel Nathaniel's power within him.

  Die. Die. Die.

  The word echoed in his mind, his lips silently formed it, the thought transfused his soul, and as he watched, his grandfather sank slowly to the ground.

  You killed my father. Die. Die. Die.

  And then, as the night sounds slowly began again, Michael knew it was over. Shadow rose to his feet and padded over to sniff at Amos's body. He whined a little; then, wagging his tail, he trotted toward Michael, sat at his feet, and licked his hand.

  In the darkness, Nathaniel smiled at him.

  "Go home now, Michael," he heard Nathaniel say. "Go home, and wait."

  Michael hesitated uncertainly. "But what about Grandpa?"

  "They will come and find him," Nathaniel said quietly. "It will not be very long. Go home and wait, Michael. I will tell you what to do."

  With Shadow beside him, Michael turned and started back through the forest. Suddenly he turned back. "Nathaniel?"

  But all Michael saw was the blackness of the night.

  Nathaniel was gone.

  Michael slipped his key in the lock of the front door, twisted it, then gently pushed the door open, silently praying that the hinges wouldn't squeak. As soon as Shadow scuttled through the narrow opening, Michael followed, and closed the door as carefully as he had opened it. Then he made his way up the stairs, testing each tread before putting his weight on it. After what seemed to him to be forever, he made it to the second-floor landing, and paused to listen. From behind the closed door to her room, he could hear the even sound of his mother's breathing. A moment later, he was safe in his own room. He undressed, then slipped into bed, where he lay wide awake listening to the night and waiting.

  Suddenly he heard Nathaniel's voice whispering inside his head, and at the same moment, the quiet of the night was shattered by the sound of a gunshot. Obeying Nathaniel's instructions, Michael leapt out of bed, and ran to his mother's room. He pounded on the door, then burst inside.

  "Mom! Mom, wake up!"

  Janet's eyes flew open, and she sat up, reaching instinctively for the lamp next to her bed. As light flooded the room, she heard a sound, then another.

  Two shots.

  "There was another one," Michael told her, climbing onto her bed. "It woke me up, Mom. Someone's down by the river, and they're shooting at something."

  Janet swung her legs off the bed, struggling to drive away the last vestiges of heavy sleep. A moment later she was at the window, peering out. All she could see was darkness, suddenly pierced by a light from the Simpsons' house, a few hundred yards away. A moment later, the phone started ringing.

  "Go answer it, honey," Janet told Michael as she struggled to find the sleeves of her bathrobe and pull it on over her ungainly bulk. As Michael jumped off the bed and dashed out of the room, Janet followed him as quickly as she could. Another shot rang out as she took the receiver from Michael.

  "It's Mrs. Simpson," Michael told her.

  "Ione?" Janet asked. "Ione, what on earth is going on?"

  "Then it's not coming from your house?" Ione asked.

  "Our house? Ione, Michael and I were both sound asleep. And I don't even own a gun. Michael says it sounds like it's coming from down by the river."

  "That's what Leif thinks, too."

  "Maybe it's hunters," Janet suggested.

  "In the middle of the night? Don't be silly."

  "Then what could it be?" Ione hesitated a moment, then: "Janet, did you say Michael was asleep?"

  Janet frowned, and her eyes went automatically to Michael. "Yes."

  "Didn't Michael go out tonight?"

  "Go out? What are you talking about?"

  "Boys," Ione said in a weary voice. "It seems Eric and Ryan decided to have themselves a little midnight adventure. But I caught them at it. They said Michael was with them. Was he?"

  Janet was silent for a moment, then: "Just a minute." She covered the receiver with her hand. "Michael, did you go out with Ryan and Eric tonight?"

  Michael opened his mouth to deny it, but then changed his mind. "Yes," he admitted. "We—we were just messing around."

  Janet spoke once more into the phone. "He was with them," she told Ione. "But what's that got to do with the shooting?"

  "I don't know," Ione replied. "But the boys said they saw someone in Potter's Field. They—well, they thought it was Abby. But I've never heard of a ghost carrying a gun before." Then, before Janet could make a reply: "Hold on, Janet." There was a murmuring, then Ione came back on the line. "We're coming over there, Janet. Leif thinks it might be Ben Findley shooting, and he wants to find out. There've been stories of Ben shooting at kids before, but so far, no one's ever heard the shots." Ione's voice hardened. "I don't care what old Ben does, but if he was trying to shoot at the kids, he's in big trouble. And while we're at it we might as well find out from all three of the boys exactly what they were up to. Okay?"

  Janet sighed. "Okay. I'll put on some coffee." She hung up the phone, and turned to confront Michael. "You are in trouble, young man," she told him. "You know better than to go out by yourself at night, and if you were trespassing on Mr. Findley's property, you should know that he would have been perfectly within his rights to shoot you." Then her worry overcame her anger. "My God, Michael, you could have been killed! Why did you do it?"

  Suddenly Nathaniel's warning voice sounded in his head. "Not yet!"

  "I—I don't know," Michael stammered.

  Janet glared at him. "Well, you'd better figure it out," she told him. "And whatever you have to say had better match pretty well with whatever Ryan and Eric have to say. Understand?"

  Michael nodded; then, as Janet started toward the kitchen, he sank down to the floor and slipped his arms around Shadow. "I'm scared," he whispered to the big dog. "What'll they do when they find Grandpa?"

  Shadow nuzzled at his master, and his tail thumped against the wall as he wagged it. Then, once more, Nathaniel's voice came to him. "It will be all right. In a little while, it will be all right."

  When the knock came at the front door, Janet hurried to answer it, opening the door wide in the expectation that the Simpsons and Ryan Shields would be on her porch.

  Instead, it was Ben Findley.

  His hooded eyes were glowering, and his threatening demeanor was made no less frightening by the shotgun in his left hand.

  "Where's that brat of yours, Mrs. Hall?" he demanded.

  Janet ignored the question. "Was that you shooting just now?"

  "That wasn't no shotgun," Findley growled. "That was a rifle. Is your kid here?"

  "Of course he's here," Janet finally replied. Then her eyes narrowed. "I just talked to Ione Simpson," she told him coldly. "Her husband thinks the shooting might have been you."

  Findley hesitated a moment, then nodded his head. "Can't say as I blame him for that," he said.

  Janet was about to demand that the old man leave her property when a car turned into the driveway and the porch was suddenly flooded with the glare of headlights. A moment later, the Simpson family and Ryan Shields piled out of the car. But when they saw who was on the porch, their words of greeting died on their lips. It was Leif Simpson who finally broke the silence.

  "What're you doing over here, Findley?"

  "Checkin' up," the old man replied, his voice sullen. "I came over to make sure her kid was here where he belongs."

  Leif's eyes narrowed. "What made you think he might not be?"

  Findl
ey's rheumy eyes shifted toward Janet, then went back to meet Leif's steady gaze. "Why don't you and I have a little talk, and let the ladies go inside?" he asked.

  Leif nodded his agreement, and Janet held the door open while Ione, carrying Peggy, followed the two boys into the little house. Janet hesitated a moment, then closed the door, leaving the two men on the porch.

  A few minutes later, Leif joined them in the kitchen. "You'd better call Buck," he told Janet. "It seems Amos Hall was out here tonight, and Findley thinks it must have been him shooting. But he hasn't seen Amos's light for a while, and he and I are going to go down toward the river and have a look around."

  "Amos?" Janet repeated. "Why would Amos be out there? Where was he?" And then she remembered Ione's words. "Potter's Field?"

  "That's what Ben Findley says."

  "But—but why?"

  "Don't know," Leif replied. "But he also said it might be a good idea if you got hold of a doctor."

  Janet made the calls, then joined Ione and the children at the table. "All right," she said softly. "It's time for you three to tell us what you were up to tonight."

  One by one, the three boys recounted the story of the evening.

  Each of them told about sneaking out, and each of them told about making their way down the Halls' pasture, across the field, and into the woods.

  Each of them told about seeing the light in Potter's Field.

  Ryan and Eric talked about losing their nerve, and running pell mell back the way they had come, and bursting back into the Simpsons' house, too frightened to worry about the noise they were making.

  At last Janet turned to Michael. "What about you, Michael?" she asked. "Did you come home when you saw the light in the field?"

  Michael shook his head. "I—I went into Mr. Findley's barn," he said softly.

  Janet frowned. "Weren't you frightened, too?"

  Again Michael shook his head.

  "But why not?"

  Michael hesitated, and then he heard Nathaniel's voice:

  "Tell them. Tell them now."

  "Because of Nathaniel," he breathed. "Nathaniel and I killed Grandpa."