Shakily, she stood up and shuffled toward her door, her panic still contained by a wall of self-discipline, though she didn't know how much longer she could maintain it. She could not be moving against her will, yet her feet kept carrying her farther away from her bed, the only symbol of security left in her room. Her arms and legs were a marionette's, and she knew that Aunt Martha was pulling the strings, for as the eerie voice reached a high note, one foot moved forward, and as the note fell low, her other foot followed. Her fingers unbolted her door, and then she was in the hall, moving forward with a purpose she did not begin to understand.
"For God's sake, don't," she whispered as she unlocked the back door and tugged it open, the sharp creaking briefly drowning the voice from the abyss beyond. Then she was stepping into the humid night air, facing a bizarre, silvery web-work, which she realized were thickly entwined tree limbs catching the pale moonlight. She stepped off the little stoop and into the damp grass, which tickled and prickled her ankles as she walked toward the beckoning trees, goaded on by the disembodied voice. She seemed to be outside her body, which was all that kept her from panicking. But now she wanted to panic, to somehow break the spell that kept her moving, for she was certain that the power gripping her intended not to frighten her but finish her.
The fingers of a low-hanging branch scrabbled at her hair and nightshirt, and with every step she took, her feet sank deeper into cool muck. Surely, all she needed to do was assert her will. No one could master her mind; it just wasn't possible. She pushed with all her mental strength, struggled to make her legs to obey her commands, not the other's, but the signals hit dead ends and fed back into her brain, jolting her but not freeing her.
The ethereal voice abruptly went silent, and her feet stopped moving. She staggered as if a giant hand had slapped her, the thin branches still clutching her hair like groping, skeletal fingers. Then she realized she could see her shadow front of her, in the center of a pale gold rectangle. She spun around and saw Martha's window illuminated, and heard another voice speaking — indecipherable, but distinctly masculine.
David.
A bit late, perhaps, but as good as his word.
She stood frozen for a few moments, until she was certain her muscles weren't going to betray her and send her tumbling into the wet grass and weeds. Looking around anxiously, she found she had actually entered the woods, for the branches had closed around her on all sides, like gnarled arms seeking to embrace her. The light from the window penetrated only a short distance into the trees, but amid the thick undergrowth, she spied a few splotches of muddy water, some of which bubbled ominously, as if something were hiding just beneath the surface. Even if the pools weren't deep enough to swallow her, the idea of stepping into a host of unknown, perhaps venomous creatures nearly sent her into a fresh panic.
She slogged her way back to firmer earth, grateful when she felt only cool grass beneath her feet. The back door hung open, waiting for her, and she stumbled toward it, panting, trying to replenish the oxygen that terror had stolen. She had just reached the stoop when, behind her, something heavy moved.
A deep, wet thud, like a sledgehammer slamming into the mud.
Another. And then another. Coming toward her.
She glanced back and saw the nearest tree branches parting as something shoved its way through them. High in the branches, higher than the head of the tallest man, she saw a pale shimmer — an indistinct shape, but as large as one of her bedroom windows.
She could not hold back a sharp scream as she tore open the rickety storm door, leaped into the house, and slammed the heavier wooden door shut behind her. The stubborn dead bolt refused to move, but she wrestled frantically with the thing until it finally slid home. For too long she stood there, torn between seeking refuge in her bedroom and retreating deeper into the house. However, when she heard a heavy shuffling on the other side of the door, she turned and sprinted down the dark hall toward the kitchen, her shoulder smashing painfully into the doorjamb as she rounded the last corner. The range hood light was still burning, providing a small sphere of illumination, which seemed a welcoming oasis until she realized that the kitchen curtains were still open, offering whatever was outside a clear view of her through the window.
"Oh, Jesus," she whispered, scanning the cabinets and drawers, finally tearing open the cutlery drawer and grabbing a long butcher knife. She stood in the middle of the room, clutching the handle in bone-white fingers, her head cocked, ears keen for the first sound of movement either outside or in.
Somewhere beyond the kitchen door, from the direction of the great room, the floor creaked. A footstep, perhaps — but it couldn't have been the thing from the swamp. It was too huge, too heavy to enter the house without smashing its way through a window or door. Only silence crept in through the windows, and when she heard another creak, this one closer than before, she turned to face the great room door, knife at the ready.
A second later, David appeared, wearing his satin robe, his eyes narrowed and curious. When he saw the knife, he stopped and crossed his arms. "Courtney? What's the matter?"
"That thing is outside," she said hoarsely.
"What thing?"
"The Monarch."
He glanced at her muddy feet. "Do you sleepwalk, by chance?"
She looked down and shook her head. "I wasn't sleepwalking. I wasn't dreaming. I heard Martha starting up, and then I ended up outside. I couldn't stop myself."
He shook his head dubiously. "Well, Martha did start up, but I went and quieted her down — just like I said I would. I'm sorry she disturbed you again."
"It wasn't just her," she said. "I heard that thing coming out of the woods. I saw it. I saw…something."
"The same thing as last night?"
She shook her head. "Just a blur. But I'm sure it was the same."
"Courtney, the Monarch is just one of Martha's stories. She told you about that to upset you. It looks like she succeeded."
With deliberate care, she put the knife down on the countertop and stared at him, half-furious, half-pleading. "I know it sounds crazy. It is crazy. But there's something out here. And it's not the Surber brothers."
He looked at the ceiling, as if to hoping to discover a message from the heavens. "I am going to commit that woman," he said softly. Then, to her, "I'll go with you back to your room. You need to get cleaned up."
"I don't want to go back there."
"Courtney. There's nothing to be afraid of. Come on. I'll show you." He held out a hand to her.
Damned if he didn't sound just like her father, she thought. Or Frank. So firm in his convictions, unwilling to listen to her, even when she had obviously suffered a trauma. "Don't patronize me, you son of a bitch. You're not hearing what I'm saying to you." She immediately regretted allowing the old bitterness out of her mouth, but it was too late to take it back.
His eyes widened in surprise, but then he stepped forward and gripped her by the wrist. "I don't need that kind of talk from you. Come on." He pulled her with him as he started down the hall toward her room. She tried to free her arm, but his grip was too strong.
"David, don't," she said. "Listen to me. Something about your aunt's singing. It affected my mind. For all I know, it's affecting you too."
"The only thing affecting me now," he said, "is lack of sleep. I'll thank Aunt Martha for that. I don't want to get angry with you. But I'm going to show you that — whatever has gotten you so flustered — it's got to be in your head."
He half-dragged her down the dark hallway, past her room, and to the back door, where he released her so he could unfasten the dead bolt. She was half-tempted to run away from him and go wake Jan, but something — maybe his confidence, his authority — kept her at his side. He pulled open the door, took her by the wrist again, and before she could even protest, he had led her out to the stoop beneath the silver-tinted trees. Her heart hammered in protest, and with her free hand, she pulled at his arm. "You're out of your mind," she said, realizing
how bizarre that sounded, coming from her lips under these circumstances. "Do you realize that?"
"So I've heard," he said distractedly, his eyes scanning the trees and grounds to either side. Then he looked at her and smiled faintly — before turning back to face the woods and shouting, "Hey, Monarch!" he called. "Come see what I brought you!"
Chapter 8
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Putting my money where my mouth is. Hey! You out there!"
"Just stop it," she said, the sting of his insult subordinating her fear. "If you don't believe me, just say so."
"Just saying so wouldn't prove a thing to you, would it?" His eyes scanned the trees, and he glanced back up at Martha's window, probably to ascertain the old woman had turned off her light and gone to bed.
She realized that, while she was inside, the night creatures must have resumed their choruses because now she noticed them falling silent at the sound of David's voice. For a brief moment, she actually resented them for failing to bear out her story.
She could feel his disdain for her apparent gullibility. "I'm sorry, David. You're wrong. What happened to me was real. I don't understand it, but it happened, just like I said it did."
He gazed at her, his expression softening a little. "I know you're upset about all that's happened since you got here. Your nerves are overwrought."
The idea that he might be right seemed intolerable. Yet the alternative was unthinkable — or should have been.
"What's this 'singing' your aunt does?" she asked, trying to suppress her anger. "It sounds almost like a foreign language. But that's no real language — is it?"
He shook his head. "God knows, Courtney. I don't know what's in that old woman's head any better than you do. She suffers from dementia. That's all there is to it."
"I don't accept that," she said. "There's got to be more to it. Tell me something. Does she know anything about hypnotism?"
"Hypnotism? Are you joking?"
"No, I'm not joking. When she started up tonight, I felt like my body was completely out of my control. That's never happened to me before. And I know that she was responsible."
He started incredulously at her. "Okay. If that's so, then what was she trying to make you do?"
She turned away from him, unable to withstand the look she knew he was about to give her. "She wanted me to come out here. Where it was waiting."
For a long time, he didn't say a word. Finally, he said, "I'm not sure who's the most demented."
That was all she could take from him. She turned and headed for the door. "Good night, David. Thank you for your concern."
She was just opening the door when he called after her, "Wait. I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"Yes, it was," she said coolly. "I'm going back to bed. But there is one thing you can do for me."
"What?"
"Make sure that woman upstairs doesn't open her mouth again tonight."
"I wish I could have stopped her in the first place."
Yeah, so crazy Courtney wouldn't have gone south, he was no doubt thinking. With a sigh of disgust, she slipped inside and returned to her room, knowing that, regardless of what she had told David, she would not sleep another minute tonight. While anger had vanquished her fear, at least for now, her body was a live wire, and there was no way she would be able to relax, even if circumstances allowed it.
She was about to close the door when she realized David had followed her and was standing in the doorway, his eyes boring through her, into her emotions. Just for a second, relief that he was still nearby overshadowed her annoyance with him. "What?" she asked, her voice still razor sharp.
"I don't want you to be angry with me," he said, lowering his head with a touch of humility. "I've tried to make a good impression on you, and I'm afraid I've blown it."
"I don't care to be treated like a hysterical, brainless bimbo. You know better. I know you do."
"You're right," he said. "It's just that you've been under a hellish strain since you got here, and it seemed to me that it had gotten to you. And don't forget — you called me names first." He gave her his most captivating smile.
She blinked, remembering ruefully that he was right. "Then I apologize for that."
He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "And I'm sorry for overreacting."
She saw that damnable, mocking look in his eye, and she realized then that he probably wasn't sorry at all. She just nodded.
"You're still shaking like a leaf," he said. "You really are upset."
"What would you expect?" she asked defiantly.
To her surprise, he gripped her arm firmly and pulled her toward him. Then both of his arms were encircling her body, and to her surprise, she found herself melting into his embrace. One of his hands cradled her head, and he leaned forward, his lips coming to meet hers, at first tentatively, then with increasing fierceness.
She didn't want to respond, she didn't, but she did, and then their bodies were moving together toward her bed, and she felt him drawing her down with him, his lips never leaving hers. His touch was exhilarating, his kiss exquisite, and it was so much sweeter because she wasn't supposed to be doing this; he was her best friend's brother, she had vowed not to encourage him, and she damn near didn't even like him.
She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him tighter, working her tongue against his, alternately gently and then furiously, drawing away from his mouth, feeling the tip of his tongue slowly brushing her lips. One of his hands moved down her back, slid under the hem of her long T-shirt, and then slowly worked its way toward her breasts, his touch warm and reassuring, hot and exciting. She raised up long enough to strip off the long T-shirt and toss it to the floor. As his fingers caressed one soft breast, his lips moved to her throat, and she felt his teeth against the delicate skin, and there was pressure, and then he was biting the tender flesh just above her shoulder. Her heart skipped a beat because it hurt. She couldn't take pain, not this way, but somehow as his teeth and tongue worked together, nibbling and burrowing, she realized that her fingers were clenching the muscles of his back, her nails drilling into his skin, spurring him on, thrilling him. She bore the pain, and then his mouth moved lower, over her collarbone and then to her breast. His tongue gently stroked her flesh, and only intermittently did he allow her to feel the sharpness of his teeth, stoking both her desire and her fear.
Her fingers played in his hair, ran up and down his jaw, poised to push him away if he trespassed against her, but every nerve his tongue touched shivered with pleasure, and she moaned softly, which only fueled his hot kisses. Understanding the feeling no better than she had the power of Martha's voice, she found herself reveling in the horrifying knowledge that she might well be performing for the amusement of something watching through her window, even at this moment. The thought froze her blood, but when David's teeth pressed into her inner thigh and began to gnaw, fear melted and trickled away, and her back arched with excitement as pain and dread turned to sweetness.
On and on it seemed to go, until he pulled away from her, and the vacancy felt cold. She saw him removing his robe, his eyes gleaming faintly in the darkness, fixed on her, scanning and absorbing her body. His eyes were lustful, and yet — perhaps for the first time — she knew he was seeing her, not just her body, and he was captivated. For that, she felt at least a little vindicated.
As he glided back onto the bed, his weight slowly settling upon her, warm and wonderful, she dimly registered the fact that something just outside her window was moving. Something heavy.
And all the night sounds had stopped.
But she paid none of it any mind. David was here, with her, and she with him. At this moment, that was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She woke alone. Her room felt chilly, and outside the windows, the day was smoke-gray, the wind crying like a despairing child through the trees. She sat up, saw the impression David's body had left in her bed, and she knew none of it had been a dream; not the horror o
f the thing coming out of the dark woods nor the thrill of him fucking her every way but Sunday. As she moved, she realized her lower regions were a bit sore, for he had been brutal, using her for his own gratification; yet she also remembered something in his eyes, and in his touch, which insinuated that he had bonded with her on a deep, even spiritual level.
He had been brutal with her because she expected brutal. It was what she knew best. Somehow, he had pulled that from her brain and given her exactly what she was accustomed to. From that perspective, he was ten times the man Frank had ever been.
She dragged herself out of bed and went into the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror.
Her neck and shoulders were bruised, displaying the livid marks of his teeth. On her abdomen and thighs. Down her legs. Good God, she thought, he had damn near devoured her.
"Can't rape the willing," she said, wondering what had possessed her to be so willing. Lingering effects of the alcohol, perhaps. Vulnerability born of fear. Or — she froze at the notion — something completely beyond her own volition.
She remembered Martha's voice coiling and uncoiling in her mind, compelling her to leave her room in the dead of night, out to where something terrible and almost certainly deadly was waiting for her. The idea of someone else's will totally dominating her own seemed inconceivable. Nonetheless, it had happened. And she wondered: just how deeply had her mind been affected? Could she be certain at any time that she had full control of her own body and mind?
What if David was right, and she had just dreamt the whole thing? It would certainly simplify the world and, by rights, ease her mind considerably.
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