"Stupid," she muttered, tugging her mind away from her fears, which she knew were more than half paranoid, driven solely by anxiety and unfulfilled expectations. Chances were that those men had simply stumbled onto a golden opportunity to exhibit their raging immaturity, done so, and then gone on their way, never to be seen by her again. Most likely, they had forgotten all about her and were already plotting their next act of juvenile brilliance.
From far away, somewhere beyond the sounds of forest life, the breeze blew a sorrowful dirge, its voice a soft, feminine moan that rose and fell rhythmically, the trees rustling as they danced beneath its breath. Then a muted train whistle rose in melancholy harmony, and Courtney shivered, not from the slight chill in the air but from the exotic blend of sounds, which suggested wildness, or ancientness. The distant whistle, rather than signifying the presence of other human beings, seemed too lonely, intensifying her impression that that the dense, urban world she had always known had been swept from existence and replaced by a vast, primal sphere in which she was no more significant than an ant. In her life, she didn't think she had ever felt so small.
Then she heard something new: a low whimper, like a dog in pain, gradually growing louder, rising to a pitiful yet unnerving wail. Even as her senses sharpened to analyze the noise, the wail modulated itself into a warbling aria, which grew shriller and wilder every second, until it sounded like "Gyah, gyah, hikari oh nyah," repeated in a demented refrain. Her heart lurched and began to race.
Then realization dawned, and she sighed heavily as her tension broke with an almost palpable jolt.
"Aunt fucking Martha."
For some time, the old woman howled, her voice plaintive, piercing, and maddening, impossible to shut out. And Courtney thought that if she had a gun at this moment, she would be oh-so-tempted to go upstairs and use it.
Trying hard to concentrate on the comparatively soothing voices of the night creatures in the background, she turned out the light and slipped into her bed, its sheets pleasantly cool until her body heat began to warm them. As she lay there, the old woman's voice gradually became less jarring and more hypnotic, having settled into a bizarre but rhythmic trilling, like a recording of an operatic solo played in reverse. The notion that Martha might have once overindulged in LSD or some such mind-altering substance revived a touch of Courtney's humor.
Martha's insane voice began to wind down like an old phonograph, and Courtney had actually managed to relax a little when something snapped her back to her senses.
A low, masculine mumble, just outside her window.
The old woman's voice revved up again, issuing a staccato burst of nonsensical syllables.
And the other voice answered.
A deep, rumbling gush of glossolalia, coming from so close behind her head that the speaker might have been in the room with her.
Her heart slammed into overdrive, and she sat up, throwing back the covers, uncertain exactly what she intended to do. For many tense seconds, she sat rigidly, dreading the idea of looking out the window into the unfathomable void, but knowing she could not restrain herself.
The voice seemed too big, too voluminous, to come from any man, yet she knew it was no animal. The indecipherable syllables could only be the product of a human tongue. And the voice responded to Martha as if the speaker understood her. Courtney couldn't claim to know any languages other than Spanish and a smattering of French and German, but she would wager everything that the utterances flowing from beyond the window belonged to no language that any sane human being had ever spoken.
At last, silence fell, and, for uncountable minutes, neither voice spoke. Unable to resist the compulsion, she steeled her nerves, propped herself on her elbows, and peered through the gap in the curtains, wondering if the darkness of her room were sufficient to conceal her from the view of anyone watching her window. As her eyes adjusted, she made out the vague shapes of tree trunks and branches limned by pale moonlight, and a few stars in the tiny purple patch overhead. She could see nothing else — for which she was mostly grateful — yet her tingling nerves assured her that the masculine speaker still lurked close to the house.
She had just about resolved to give up and try to get some sleep when she detected movement off to the left. Nothing distinct; just a slow, subtle shifting in the darkness. She focused her eyes on that spot, and after several seconds, she made out something there — a thin sliver of pale mist hovering above the ground, drifting from left to right at the edge of the narrow strip of yard. Very slowly, the thing began to expand, to widen, and now she could make out some pale mass, almost shapeless, but possessing unsettling contours that came gradually clearer as the thing moved toward her window.
A tall, milky blob, with two dark, suggestive cavities in its center.
Jesus God, it was a face, a fucking face, and it was getting closer and bigger, its dark sockets fixed on her like the empty eyes of a skull.
She jerked herself away from the window and collapsed on her backside, stunned, revolted, disbelieving. After many moments, when the keening of her nerves had dulled a little, her rational mind goaded her to look again, to accept that something had fooled her senses, to understand that the thing could not have been what it appeared. Shock, however, refused to release her muscles, holding her frozen in place, while her thundering heartbeat and labored breathing drowned any further sounds from outside.
So this is terror, she thought. She had never felt such a thing, not even when her husband had murdered her daughter and destroyed her life. Back then, she had known horror, bitter sadness, helplessness, and — ultimately — a deep-rooted, long-lasting rage. Whatever fear she had known, it had been an altogether different brand; a grim but recognizable product of events spiraling out of control and dragging her with them.
Here and now, something dark and frigid had touched her soul.
No. This had to be a trick. A mirage. A joke.
David.
Yes. Even less mature than he seemed — or as demented as Aunt Martha — he must have undertaken to prey upon her already fragile nerves. A childish prank. Or a willful act of cruelty.
Men were so often cruel.
Rage. A fury born of fear, yet much more potent, restored her volition, her mobility. It was her demon, but also her lifeline.
She rose from her bed and stumbled toward the fireplace. She knew there was a poker in the metal stand on the hearth, and she felt her way around until her fingers closed on its cold, solid handle. As she removed it, she jostled the stand, which made a hideous rattle, but it didn't fall over, and then she was rushing recklessly in the direction of the door, now absolutely determined to face — and punish — any soul with the wherewithal to even think of victimizing her again.
She tore open her door, the hallway beyond illuminated only by an anemic light that threaded its way from the distant kitchen, and headed straight to the back door, swearing in her heart that she would use her weapon, whether it was David out there or one of those bug-eyed hicks who had taken such an interest in her this morning.
She fumbled with the latch for a moment, and then she was standing on the narrow stoop, facing a barrier of near-total darkness, the shimmering light from the crescent moon and ember-like stars barely filtering down through the dense tree branches. A chill had seeped into the late summer air, and that perpetual, distant gale still whispered through the forest.
Nothing and no one appeared to be moving nearby. But now she realized that if she felt exposed inside her room, out here, even if not wholly defenseless, she was susceptible to assault by any predator, human or otherwise. Fear surged up again to displace her rage, her power.
My God, she thought, I'm out here with it.
Bravado gone, her entire body seemed to wilt, leaving her once again small and ineffectual in a vast, lightless chasm.
What could she have been thinking?
Her hand reached back for the door handle and fell on its cold, reassuring surface. Shoving it open, she backed into th
e vaguely lit hallway, only then realizing what a perfect silhouette her body presented to any eyes watching her from the darkness.
She was just about to close and bolt the door when she heard a slow thumping in the yard, only a few feet away. A deliberate and insanely heavy tread, like sledgehammers pounding the earth, moving steadily toward her, but she could make out nothing. Nothing.
"Courtney?"
She whirled around to see David standing in the hall, his eyes on the poker clenched in her dread-tensed fingers. Her immediate reaction was relief that he was not the one outside. She could hear the heavy footsteps retreating in the darkness.
How could she have even thought he might be responsible?
"Did you hear it?" she asked.
"Hear what?"
"Something outside. Someone."
"I heard you at the door." He pointed to her weapon. "You looking to build a fire out there?"
"There were terrible noises. Voices."
He raised an eyebrow. "In the backyard?"
"Right outside my window."
"Martha was at it again. I was afraid she might have disturbed you."
"Not just Martha. Someone else. I heard another voice. And there were footsteps."
He took a step toward her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You're shaking."
She could tell from his expression that he was both concerned about her and a hair's breadth from making a wise remark. "I did hear someone else. Calling out gibberish just like Martha."
He shook his head dubiously. "I don't see how anyone could match Martha in the meaningless noise department."
"I saw something, too," she blurted and then wished she hadn't. How could she describe the misty thing that had drifted through the darkness, so indistinct and yet so awful, and make him believe her?
David just stared at her questioningly.
She waved her free hand in agitation. "I don't know what it was. A shape. I thought it was a face."
"A face."
She nodded. "Big. Indistinct. I don't know what it was. But I saw it."
"Look, Martha's carrying on would rattle anybody's nerves. I'm sorry about that. One of us should have warned you that she goes off the deep end sometimes."
"David, what's wrong with her?"
"Dementia, I guess. Most times, she's quite lucid, even if she's a pain in the ass. But sometimes…well, you've heard it for yourself."
"Then someone else is just as demented as she is."
"You're sure about this?"
"You didn't hear another voice?"
"All I heard was Martha. And you, going out the door. Look, I was in the kitchen. If someone else was shouting out there, I'd have heard it."
Her shoulders slumped, and she sighed heavily. She believed he was telling the truth. Why would he lie?
"It must have been one of those men from the truck."
"Let's not get paranoid. Look, if it'll make you feel better, I'll check outside the house and make sure no one's hanging around." He pointed to her poker. "And I can do better than that to protect myself."
"No," she said. "Whoever it was, they went off into the woods."
"In the pitch dark?"
"I heard their footsteps. Just as you came to the door. And you didn't hear them? Are you serious?"
He gave her a long, thoughtful look. "All right. I'll take your word for it that someone was out there. But they're gone now."
"I think so."
"Well then. I guess you should try to get some sleep."
"Sleep. Right."
"Try."
She sighed again. "I'll try."
He turned slowly toward the kitchen, then stopped. His eyes met hers and for the first time, she saw something resembling true compassion. He took a deep breath. "I don't suppose you'd want me to stay…with you…tonight…would you?"
Her heart clanged deafeningly in her ears, and for so many long moments, it thudded yes, yes, yes.
At last, she shook her head, and very firmly said, "No. I would not."
Unfazed, his typical wry smile returned. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."
"Good night."
"You're quite safe here, you know."
She watched him walk down the hall and noticed that he snickered a little bit to himself, perhaps at having worked up the nerve to invite himself into her room in the first place, but more likely in egotistical surprise at her refusal.
Yes. The latter did seem the more probable explanation.
Chapter 5
"David said you thought you saw something outside last night."
"I didn't think it. I saw it."
"Okay, you saw it. A big misty face?"
"It looked like a face."
"Turn around."
Courtney complied, and Jan squirted a generous blob of suntan lotion into her palm and began rubbing it onto Courtney's back. Its moist coolness and the warmth of Jan's hands felt heavenly, and she breathed a little sigh of ecstasy as Jan massaged her shoulders, methodically working her way down to her middle back. Rolling clouds occasionally obscured the sun, but just now, its gaze was roasting hot, and the combination of heat and Jan's touch nearly sent her swooning.
When Jan said, "All done," she settled herself on her stomach, her fingers scrunching the soft sand beneath her blanket, sensual pleasure crowding out most of the dread that had lingered like unmelting ice in her gut since the previous night. After the initial disturbing events, the night had passed quietly, but she had slept little, and so decided against running this morning — rather to David's chagrin. She had nearly forgone the beach trip as well, hoping to catch up on some rest, but Jan had convinced her to come as planned, and now she was glad she had. It was Jan's favorite spot: a little strip south of Nags Head, where only a few houses peered out from beyond the dunes and a scant handful of people populated the beach. From somewhere nearby, techno music thumped rhythmically from bass-heavy speakers, but it was smooth and mellow, and Courtney found it nearly as soothing as Jan's massaging fingers.
"You know," Jan said, propping her chin on her hands as she lay on her blanket, "not to trivialize your experience, but the ground mist coming out of the woods at night can be disconcerting. With Aunt Martha yowling at the same time, your senses might be…fooled."
"Not to trivialize your rationalization, but I did hear another voice. Not just Martha's."
Jan stared at her, pursing her lips in either contemplation or frustration. "All right. Let's say for argument's sake that those men from the truck did come back. They go around the house and hear Aunt Martha squalling. They mimic her just to be cruel."
The way Jan related it, the scenario sounded so improbable that even Courtey felt inclined to dismiss it out of hand. Yet in the absence of logical alternatives, it seemed the explanation that most closely matched the evidence of her senses.
Except for the footsteps. Those slamming, heavy footsteps, which had retreated into the woods at the end of it all. She could hardly buy that even someone ill-intentioned enough to come prying around the house would stomp into that unplumbed darkness with no light to see by. It was so beyond foolhardy as to be implausible.
"Okay, I know it sounds silly," she finally said. "But I heard what I heard."
"I'm not doubting that. I see your gears turning, though. You have some other explanation?"
"Um, that your place is haunted?"
"But you don't believe in ghosts."
"I guess that's a problem."
Jan chuckled. "Look, don't dwell on it. I know you were scared. But David told me he's going to do some checking around. If anybody's looking to mess with you, then he'll get to the bottom of it. Trust me on this."
"I guess I'll have to."
"Yes, you do."
Courtney smiled, knowing that Jan had her best interests at heart. Here in the bright daylight, with the cheerful sound of rolling waves and mellow music playing in the background, last night's dread finally seemed far away, almost unreal. In her life, she had never do
ubted her senses or her convictions, but in the past few months, so many things had changed, and all so horribly, that she wasn't certain whether she could still rely on the foundations her old perceptions had built.
After a time, Jan said, "I know you probably haven't given it much thought yet. But I think you'll be able to find decent work in Elizabeth City. The economy's pretty good there. It's only twenty miles from our place. If you find a job there, you can stay with us until you can afford your own place."
"I appreciate that," she said. "Maybe in the next day or two I'll go up and start looking around. See what the prospects are."
"Well, it's not Atlanta, of course. But at least here you have a place to stay and you won't go hungry. We might even be able to help you out with an apartment for a few months, if necessary."
"God no, I couldn't ask that," Courtney said. "You've done so much for me, just taking me in like this."
Jan gazed at her warmly for a few moments. "It's because I love you."
Courtney couldn't keep from blushing a little. "Yeah. You too."
"Hey," Jan said, her eyes narrowing. "I really shouldn't say anything. But I think you've got David pretty well captivated."
"Oh," she said with a deepening frown. "I'm not sure that's good." But her heart sped up a little.
"Well, I can see why you'd be hesitant. Still, rest assured, he wouldn't take your safety lightly. He said he was going to make sure nobody bothers you. You can depend on his word."
"That's good to know."
"David has a good heart," Jan said. "But he's got a lot of growing up to do. Before Mom and Dad died, he was really spoiled. He's used to having his own way, and he does what it takes to get it."
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