But the memory of Gloria’s charred little body would not leave the counselor’s mind.
* * *
Phillip awakened, his heart pounding, sweat beading his face. He did not know what had awakened him in such a state. He had not been dreaming, although from time to time he did still dream about Nam. As did, he suspected, anyone who had served over there. Or over anywhere, in any war, for that matter.
He looked at the clock on the nightstand. The numbers glowed at him. Twelve-one.
The witching hour, that thought came to him.
Nonsense! he thought.
Then he heard it, very faint but very real. Laughter. A man’s laughter, and then a woman’s laughter. No. No, that wasn’t quite correct. It sounded more inhuman than anything. But the genders were definitely different. It was that same laughter he’d heard the other day. Or thought he’d heard.
No mistaking it now. It was real.
He looked through the gloom at Jeanne. She had been so upset over Nora’s very minor burns, she’d taken a sedative before retiring. She was deep in drug-induced sleep.
Then Phillip remembered: Nora had encouraged her mother to take the pill. Daughter consoling and counseling mother.
Phillip lay still, controlling his breathing, listening to the sounds of the night. There it was again. That haunting laughter.
He slipped softly from the the warmth of the bed and found his slippers. He put on his robe and walked quietly to the bedroom door, putting an ear to the wood, listening. The laughter was real, no doubt about it. He gently opened the door and stepped out into the hall to stand for a moment, trying to locate the source of the strange laughter.
It seemed to be coming from Nora’s room. No . . . well, yes. In part. Or was it echoing around the house? Some of the laughter seemed to be coming from above him. In the attic. But that was impossible.
Phillip padded down the carpeted hall until he reached his daughter’s room. He listened at the door. There the laughter was much more audible. But surely that wasn’t Nora laughing? Couldn’t be. This laughter was . . . inhuman sounding.
Phillip lifted his head as the laughter seemed to shift, coming from above him.
Then that faded away.
He tried the doorknob. It turned easily in his hand. He pushed the door open. He stood in open-mouthed shock and bewilderment, staring at the sight on the floor.
The jack-in-the-box was out, snake-like, its long canvas-covered spring neck swaying back and forth to the strange music playing from the depths of the box.
But it wasn’t playing the Funeral March. Phillip struggled to place the tune. He could not. But he was sure it was a German marching song.
Was that possible?
He looked at the jack-in-the-box. The hinged mouth was opening and closing, laughter rolling from the mouth. Nora was seated on the floor in front of the snake-like jack. She was dressed in the filthiest clothing Phillip had ever seen, the dirt and crud crusted on the jeans and blouse.
The music stopped abruptly.
The eyes of the jack-in-the-box shifted, clicking as they moved, stopping and staring at Phillip.
“Du bist mir immer!” the jack-in-the-box said. Then it laughed.
Nora slowly turned her head to look at her father. Hate sprang from her eyes. She began cursing him, the vocal filth rolling from her mouth. The breath from her mouth stank, filling the room with a foulness that was almost unbearable.
“Get out!” Nora spat at him. But the voice that ripped in his direction did not belong to Nora. This voice was like none Phillip had ever heard. It was deep and hollow-sounding. And very menacing.
Phillip backed away from the hate-filled voice and angry eyes.
He blinked his eyes in disbelief. Had that jack-in-the-box actually spoken to him?
He looked at the swaying clown’s head. The mouth opened, laughter rolling.
“Get out!” Nora hissed at him. “Don’t you ever again set foot in my room without my permission. Get out!” she screamed at him.
Phillip’s doubts and shock were replaced by a hot anger. He stepped toward his daughter.
“Fool!” she shouted at him. “Get out! Leave me be!”
The room turned unbearably hot; sweat streaked Phillip’s face. Nora laughed at him, that sickening foulness once more lashing from her open mouth, enveloping him in its stench.
The jack-in-the-box laughed and laughed and swayed side to side. The jaw popped open, the laughter taunting and evil-sounding, hate-filled and worse. Ominous.
“No!” Phillip said. “This is not real.”
Nora looked at her father, an evil smile curving her young lips. Then her eyes began rolling around and around in her head. Phillip stared in horror. That was impossible. Humanly impossible. She could not be doing that.
The heat in the room increased as Nora turned her head around. Completely around. Her neck seemed made of rubber.
“No!” Phillip whispered.
His daughter howled at him, a savage animal howling, only the whites of her eyes showing. That foulness once more covered him with its stink.
Some sort of slime leaked from Nora’s mouth. The sight sickened Phillip. He backed away in disgust. The slime rolled from her mouth, dripping onto her filthy shirt.
Phillip backed further away.
Nora spat at her father, the spittle a muddy bloody brown, staining the carpet where it landed, stinking globs of it.
Phillip fought to keep from vomiting.
“Get out!” Nora howled at him.
“Rasch, rasch!” the jack-in-the-box said.
Phillip backed out of her room, into the hall. He closed the door behind him and stood for a moment trembling. He heard the laughter again, but this time it was coming from above him. He ran down the hall to Phil’s room and burst in. The boy was sleeping soundly. Good Lord, Phillip thought. Surely he’d heard it.
But the boy was deep in sleep.
Phillip left his room, closing the door. He walked back to Nora’s room. He was afraid, really afraid to open the door. He took several deep breaths to get calm, and he forced himself to open the door. He looked in, not knowing what to expect.
The room was dark except for a nightlight plugged in across the room. The jack-in-the-box was nowhere to be seen. Nora was sleeping in her canopied bed. She wore a soft white nightgown. The room smelled faintly of a young girl’s perfume.
Phillip backed out of the room, into the hall, closing the door. He didn’t know what to believe. Had it all been a dream? A nightmare? Surely it must have been. There could be no other explanation for it.
That’s what it was. Just a dream.
He walked slowly back to the master bedroom and slipped in beside his sleeping wife. She stirred, and then settled down. She murmured something Phillip could not catch.
Surprisingly, sleep came swiftly to Phillip, almost as soon as he closed his eyes. When he awakened, hours later, his memories of that awful few moments were jumbled and confused. That was one terrible nightmare, he concluded. He wondered what had brought it on.
Then he put on his robe. A foul odor drifted to him. He lifted his arm, sniffing the sleeve of the robe. His nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Time to wash this thing,” he muttered. He tossed the robe into the dirty clothes hamper. He didn’t know what had caused the odor, but he was convinced Nora had nothing to do with it. Nothing human could have done the things Nora did in his nightmare. And old toys don’t laugh and speak.
He did not believe in ghosts or hobgoblins or the supernatural. All that stuff made for exciting books and movies, but other than that . . .
He had suffered through a very bad dream, and that was all it had been. Sam would tell him it had been something he’d eaten.
So Phillip put it out of his mind.
Almost.
* * *
An entire month with nothing to do. That’s what Phillip was thinking as he listened to the sounds of the house. He was wondering what he was going to do with a
month’s vacation. He hadn’t had a month with nothing to do since college.
He had the house to himself. Jeanne had gone into the city for some early Christmas shopping; Nora and Phil were at school. Gloria Waltham’s funeral was to be held today, and then Nora’s school would be dismissed early.
The nightmare returned to him. “What a dream,” he said. “Crazy, crazy.”
Phillip decided he’d start by cleaning out the attic. More than ten years of junk was piled up there. Everything from worn-out clothing to unwanted presents and broken furniture.
And a few surprises that Phillip didn’t know about.
But first he’d have another cup of coffee, sit in the den, and read the morning paper, read it in leisure, a luxury that for years had been confined to Sunday mornings. If then.
He fixed his coffee, took his favorite chair, and was getting into the lead story when he heard the laughter.
He remembered that laughter. This time the insaneness seemed to be coming from above him.
He laid his paper aside and listened, sure he’d been mistaken.
No, there it was. Very faint, but very real. Laughter.
“What the hell is going on around here?” he said aloud.
He rose from his chair and walked into the hall, standing for a moment at the base of the stairs, listening. The laughter came again. It chilled Phillip with its evil sound.
He began slowly climbing the stairs, following the sounds of evil. Down the hall to Nora’s room. He listened at her door. No, it wasn’t coming from in there. He lifted his head and strained all his resources, attempting to pinpoint the location.
The attic. It had to be coming from the attic. Phillip wondered if someone was playing a cruel joke on him. He dismissed that thought.
He walked on down the hall to the short flight of steps that led to the attic of the old home. There he paused.
And the evil laughter stopped.
Then his head felt giddy as he thought he heard someone calling his name.
He leaned against the wall as his knees threatened to buckle.
He knew there was no one else in the house. So was this his imagination?
Sure—it had to be.
“Phillip,” the faint call drifted to him.
“I’m going mad,” he muttered. “I must be losing my mind.”
“Phillip. Come to me, Phillip,”
The voice faded, replaced by a hissing sound. That changed into a whine, then a soft moaning. More laughter.
His dream returned to him. Nora’s hissing at him. He shook that away. Pure craziness, he thought. It was a dream, a nightmare. And that’s all it was.
The laughter returned.
Phillip climbed the steps to the attic door, putting his hand on the doorknob.
The laughter stopped. Now it was a whining, yowling sound. He put an ear to the door. It definitely was coming from behind that door.
“Now it’s your turn,” the voice whispered. “I’ve paid. And now it’s your turn to suffer, just like I suffered.”
Phillip heard himself ask, “Who are you? What do you want with me?”
This is ridiculous! he silently chastised himself. None of this is real. It’s my imagination working overtime, that’s all.
“They locked me away.” The voice floated from the other side of the door. “And now you’re going to pay for that.”
“Who locked you away?”
But insane laughter was all that greeted his question.
A foul odor drifted from behind the door. Where had he smelled that before? It came to him. In his dream.
He turned the knob and pushed open the door. Something dark and angry and ugly came flying and howling at Phillip. Phillip yelled as the back of his head exploded in pain. He was hurled into darkness. He fell forward, splintering the door as his full weight struck it.
9
Phillip opened his eyes. He looked up into the face of Father Joseph Debeau. The priest’s face seemed to be covered with a mist. Phillip blinked his eyes. The mist disappeared.
“Don’t try to get up,” Debeau said. “You’ve had a pretty nasty crack on the head. Just lie still for a moment.”
“Joe,” Phillip said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat. “Where did you come from?”
“I came calling. Just as I was about to ring the doorbell, I heard you yell and then fall. The front door was unlocked. I came in. You were lying at the top of the stairs. You seemed unconscious. That woman knocked me down when she ran out the front door.”
“Woman?” Phillip sat up, leaning against the wall. “What woman?”
Debeau shrugged. “I don’t know who she was. The woman who attacked you, I suppose. She ran around the side of the house, into those woods back there.”
“Jesus Christ! I never saw any woman. Did you call the police?”
“No.”
Phillip’s head had stopped its spinning. His vision had cleared. He had a headache. He blinked his eyes and said, “Why not?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“Good point.”
“I don’t notice you rushing to call the police, either.”
“Yeah. Another point. What did she look like, Joe?”
“Hideous. Her eyes were mad. She was a . . . a hag. Hair all matted and dirty. Her clothing was ragged and filthy. She appeared to be half-starved. That was all I could see. To tell the truth, she just about frightened the life out of me.”
Phillip slowly got to his feet, Debeau steadying him. He stood for a moment, felt his strength returning to shaky legs, and said, “I’m OK now. Wait a minute! The woman was in the attic. That’s what came jumping and screaming at me. But then . . . No, she couldn’t have hit me in the back of the head. So who did?”
“I haven’t any idea. Perhaps you turned?”
Phillip shook his head, and was immediately sorry he had. “No. I crouched defensively, but I didn’t turn around. I remember that. But that’s all I remember.”
“I neither saw nor heard anyone else.”
Phillip remembered the laughter, someone calling his name. “Someone was laughing at me, calling my name.”
Father Debeau’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure of that?”
“Positive, Joe. I . . .” He sighed. “Come on. Let’s get some coffee. I really think it’s time for us to talk.”
“Yes,” Debeau said. “I believe it is.”
The back of Phillip’s head was sore and tender to the touch, but the skin had not been broken. And no, he did not wish to go to the hospital.
“If I start getting blurred vision and severe headaches, then I’ll go,” he told Debeau.
Before he could tell the priest about his strange dreams of the night before—and he was still sure that was what they had been—the phone rang. Mrs. Carter, the housekeeper. She was not feeling well and would not be in for several days.
“That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. Carter,” Phillip assured her. “I’ll tell Mrs. Baxter. Hope you get to feeling better soon.”
“I forgot about the housekeeper,” Phillip said. “I don’t even know what she looks like.” He glanced at Debeau. “I don’t remember telling you where I live, Father.”
“You didn’t. But you did tell Sheela. She told me.”
“I see.” Phillip wasn’t too sure he liked that.
The priest smiled. “I can be very persuasive.”
“I’m sure.” Then Phillip told him about his dreams.
The priest sat quietly. When Phillip had finished, he said, “And you believe it was a dream?”
“Of course. It is physically impossible for a human being to do those things.”
“And the voices that called you?”
“Obviously that was real.”
“Tell me about the child that was burned at Nora’s school.”
“You do get around, don’t you?”
“I read the papers and watch TV. Your daughter is quite the little heroine.”
Phillip said nothing. He f
ound the aspirin bottle and took two painkillers. He looked back at the priest. “You don’t believe Nora tried to save the child’s life?”
“I was not there, Phillip. I don’t know what to believe.”
“I see. And today you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
“Oh no. My being here is no accident. I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m worried about you. I think you are in danger.”
Phillip nodded his head. The pain had lessened. He glanced out the window. Spitting snow. Early in the season for snow, he thought. Then he recalled his glimpses into the future. He told Debeau about them.
The priest shook his head and sighed. “What can I say? What can I tell you? What do you want me to say?”
Phillip sat down. “I don’t know, Joe. You think I’m hiding from the truth, don’t you?”
“Honestly, yes, I do. If you had not thought something was dreadfully wrong with your daughter, you would not have sought Sheela’s professional help.”
“I think Nora is . . . perhaps mentally disturbed, Joe. But I do not believe the girl is possessed by Satan.”
“Oh, neither do I.”
Phillip stared at him. “You don’t?”
“No. I think she is the child of Satan.”
* * *
Nora’s entire class was bused to the church for Gloria’s funeral. The kids had carried a change of clothing to school for the services, changing in the dressing rooms of the gym. At the church the minister referred to Nora several times during the service, calling her a friend of Gloria’s, an unselfish human being, and a true heroine.
Nora sat like a little angel doll during the services, paying close attention to the minister’s words. She especially enjoyed all the other kids looking at her, admiration in their eyes. The other kids had forgotten all the bad things they had said about Nora. They had forgotten all their parties that had excluded Nora. The kids had forgotten how they all, every single one, had shunned Nora.
But Nora remembered it all. She had forgotten nothing. While the minister spoke of unselfish love, Nora’s head was filled with the blackest hate; thoughts of dark and evil revenge boiled in her brain. She fought to keep the laughter from spilling from her mouth during the services.
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