He is tall and thin. His hair is white, drawn tightly back from a face that is nothing but a skull over which skin has been drawn.
"Catherine," he says.
He smiles but it is like no smile she has ever seen, bloodless lips stretching evilly to become a terrifying display of sharp, white teeth. He steps slowly forward and raises a pallid arm. His hand is little more than bone and gristle and in it, he holds a sword that drips with scarlet blood.
Kathryn screams and screams, and suddenly the attic door crashes open. Matthew is on the landing just outside and she throws herself, sobbing, into his arms.
He holds her close, then shoves her behind him, towards the steps.
"Run, Cat," he says.
"Matthew," she cries, "don't go in there!"
Matthew's hand is in the small of her back, pushing her. She stumbles away from him.
"Did you hear me? " he roars. "Run, Catherine, and don't look back!"
The attic door slams, she hears the click of the bolt in the lock Matthew has shut himself in with whatever is up there.
Kathryn flies down the stairs, all the way down until she is inside the drawing room. She slams the door, locks it and presses herself against it, arms outstretched, adding the weight of her body to the barrier.
"Matthew," she sobs.
She listens, but there is no sound beyond the rasp of her own breath. After a long, long time, she slumps to the floor and waits.
When she hears the sound of footsteps outside the door, she rises slowly, her body and hands pressed to the wood.
"Matthew? " she whispers.
"Cat. Open the door."
She knows his voice. She has known it, within her soul, from the day she was born. With a sob, she undoes the lock, flings the door open, and falls into his arms.
"It's all right," he says, and holds her close. "Cat, beloved, it's all right now."
"That—that thing..."
"Don't think about it, sweet."
She shudders and clings tightly to him, seeking solace in the warmth of his body, the security of his embrace.
"What was it? " she whispers.
Matthew strokes her hair, soothing her as if she were a kitten.
"It doesn't matter."
"How did you get away from it? " She presses her hands against his chest and leans back in his embrace. "I was afraid it would kill you! "
He smiles down at her.
"Were you?"
"Yes. Oh yes. It was so—so evil!"
"Catherine." He lifts her tenderly in his arms and carries her to the settee. He sits down, still holding her, and brings her head to his shoulder. "Close your eyes now, and sleep."
She gives a little hiccup of a laugh.
"But I am asleep," she says. "I'm dreaming, Matthew. I know that."
He nods and strokes her dark, silken hair back from her face.
"Then shut your eyes, Cat, and dream good dreams."
She shudders. Her arms tighten around his neck "I can't. I don't want to. If I shut my eyes, I might find myself back up there, with that—that thing."
"No. I promise, that won't happen."
"How can you be sure? "
Matthew leans back into the corner of the settee, taking Kathryn with him.
"Because I'll be with you," he says. "I'll stay right here, holding you and watching over you as you rest."
She gives a deep sigh.
"I can't rest," she whispers. "I can't..."
Seconds later, she is fast asleep.
* * *
Matthew looked down at her, lying in his arms. Christ, how beautiful she was, even now. Her face was ashen, the sweep of her lashes as dark as soot against her cheeks. Her hair was tumbled and wild; her eyes were still swollen with tears.
Gently, he reached out his hand and stroked the tendrils of hair back from her cheek.
What had happened tonight? Why did she go to the attic?
A muscle knotted in his jaw.
The Other must have drawn her there. No other explanation makes sense. But why?
At least, now, he knew the identity of the Thing that lived in the darkness. But why would it want to hurt Catherine?
Matthew looked down at her, lying soft and warm in his arms. What would have happened if he had not gotten there in time? The house had been lit up as brightly as if for a ball. He'd been walking in the garden, the wind and rain swirling around him, determined to avoid the house and Cat while he tried to work through his confused thoughts, when suddenly he'd felt the evil presence of the Other.
"Catherine?" he'd whispered.
He'd turned towards the house, his gaze going unbidden to the attic window. An eerie glow of light had been leaking through the shutters, and then he'd heard Catherine scream his name.
"Cat," he'd cried, and he'd raced into the house, up the stairs and to the attic...
And found her, found her just in time. His stomach had risen into his throat when he'd seen the Thing reaching out for her.
"Waring," he'd whispered, for that was who it was. What it was. What it had once been.
God, the ugliness of it. The vicious cruelty in its laugh, the inhuman fury in its burning eyes just before it had faded back into the darkness.
What if the Thing had caught Cat, wrapped her in its slimy embrace?
Matthew groaned. His arms tightened around Catherine; he bent his head and buried his face in her hair.
What in hell was happening to him? He could have killed her a dozen times over in the past few days but he hadn't. And all the reasons he'd given himself for waiting were not reasons but lies.
What he had wanted was to touch her. To kiss her and hold her, as he was holding her now.
He shut his eyes and drew the fragrance of her deep into his lungs.
His plans were collapsing like a house of cards. And Catherine... Catherine was not as he remembered her.
The woman he remembered had flirted and teased; she had worn costumes meant to make a man's heart beat faster. Everything about her had spoken of allurement and enticement.
The woman he held in his arms didn't know how to tease, or to flirt. She wore clothing that was a puzzlement. These things she had on tonight, for instance. A man's shirt and a man's trousers, so far as he could see, shapeless and oversized... not that they truly hid her femininity.
Nothing could do that, not even the way she wore her hair. His Catherine had favored a style meant to look natural even though he had known it took a maid an hour to arrange it.
This Catherine wore her hair loose. Or pulled back at the neck, the way he wore his. She didn't bother staining her lips, either, or her cheeks.
She was different in other ways, too. She lacked a certain coyness, a feminine trait Matthew disliked but had come to accept as inescapable. But she possessed everything else in abundance. She had an independent spirit and a fiery temper. A smile twisted across his lips. By God, this afternoon she had kneed him, right in the balls! He could not imagine another woman doing such a thing.
Another woman? Hell. He could not imagine his Catherine doing such a thing...
What in hell was wrong with him? His Catherine? As opposed to what? The woman in his arms was his Catherine.
Who else could she possibly be?
"Matthew?"
The word was the softest of sighs in the deep silence.
He looked down. Catherine's eyes were open, and fixed on his. He could see a thousand questions reflected in their blue depths, and then their sudden widening as she remembered.
He drew her closer as she began to tremble.
"It's all right. I've got you."
"Oh God," she whispered. "What was it?"
"A dream," he said. "Only a dream."
"No. It was real. And it was—it was horrible. A creature. A hideous creature..."
He lay his finger gently over her mouth and stroked it over the silken curve of her lip.
"Hush. It's over now, Catherine. Close your eyes and rest."
She sighed, and he
r dark lashes feathered against her cheeks.
"Matthew." Her hand rose, lay light as the petal of a flower against his chest. "Don't leave me."
His heart constricted. He covered her hand with his. "I won't. Not as long as you need me."
Her eyes closed. She would be asleep soon. All at once, he knew that there was one question he had to ask.
"Tell me quickly," he said, his voice low and urgent, "what is your name?"
But he was too late. Her slow, steady breathing told him she was asleep.
The hours pass.
The storm subsides.
The candles sizzle and go out.
Night gives way to morning, and the shutters and windows open soundlessly, admitting a soft, fragrant dawn breeze.
Kathryn dreams again. She is within the circle of Matthew's arms. He has shifted them both on the narrow settee so that they lie full length, together. His body is hard and warm; it shields her from any harm.
She is safe, forever safe, in his embrace.
Chapter 10
Hiram's red pickup truck came rattling up the drive promptly at seven.
Kathryn was waiting for him on the outside steps. She'd been half-convinced he wouldn't show up. Now, as he climbed down from the cab, it was all she could do to keep from racing up and throwing her arms around him.
" 'Morning, Kathryn. Isn't it a lovely day?"
Was it? She hadn't noticed. She'd been too caught up in trying to decide where last night's dreams of lying in Matthew's arms while he caressed her had ended and today's reality had begun.
She smiled brightly. "It is, now that you're here. Thanks for agreeing to stop by this morning. I know it was really short notice and you have lots to do."
"Well, you made this sound urgent."
"It is urgent." Kathryn tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans. "I, ah, I think there might be somebody sneaking around out here."
"A prowler, at Charon's Crossing?" Hiram smiled, as if she'd suggested an ocean liner had docked down in the cove. "What makes you think so?"
Careful how you phrase this, Kathryn.
"Well... well, I heard noises."
"Last night?"
"Yes."
The old man wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief, tucked it into the back pocket of his denim overalls, and lifted a battered toolbox from the bed of the pickup.
"I'm not surprised."
"You're not?"
" 'Course not." He grunted as he set the toolbox on the verandah and knelt down in front of it. "Old house like this, get a bad rain storm, it's bound to rattle the doors and the windows."
Kathryn shook her head. "This had nothing to do with the storm."
"Wind slips under the shutters, sends them bangin' against the walls—"
"No. No, it wasn't the wind, Hiram. In fact, I phoned you before the storm hit, remember?"
"Mmm. So you did." The old man grimaced as he creaked to his feet. "Well, there's still lots of funny sounds in an old house, Kathryn." He looked at her and smiled. "The joints creak and groan, just like mine."
"Look, I know you think I'm crazy, but—"
"Not crazy. Just nervous, maybe, way out here all by yourself. I can understand that but truly, there isn't anything to worry about. There's no crime to speak of on this island." He chuckled. "Nobody's got anythin' worth stealin' and even if they did, who'd do it? Everybody knows everybody else. Why, if somebody showed up wearin' a watch wasn't his—"
"I'm not talking about a burglar," Kathryn said sharply. "I—I saw something, too."
She hadn't meant to let that bit of panic edge into her voice but now, at least, she had the old man's attention.
"Saw what?" he asked, turning towards her.
Matthew McDowell. And someone else. Or something else, something that still makes my blood run cold just to think about it...
"Kathryn? What did you see?"
Kathryn swallowed dryly. "A man," she said, after a moment.
"What man? What did he look like?"
Her eyes met Hiram's. He wasn't smiling anymore. In fact, he was looking at her with such intensity that a sense of foreboding swept over her.
"Well, he was tall. In his thirties, I'd guess."
"Was he white?"
"Yes."
Hiram's face was expressionless. "Anythin' else? Anythin' about him that was special, I mean?"
Oh yeah, Kathryn thought, yeah, there was something special about her visitor, all right. He dressed like a character in a late-night movie, he sounded like one, too, and sometimes when you looked at him, you could see right through him.
"Kathryn?"
Kathryn cleared her throat. "No," she said, "no, nothing special."
Hiram stared at her for a long moment and then he nodded.
"I'll do what I can to make you feel more secure here," he said. "You just tell me what you want done."
"Well, for starters, I'd like you to fix the shutters. Some of them won't stay closed."
"I can take care of that."
"Good."
"What else needs doin'?"
"I want the door locks changed."
"No problem."
"Be sure you change the one on the attic door, too." Hiram looked at her but if he thought the request strange, it didn't show on his face. "The lock that's on it now is old," she said, "and difficult to work."
He nodded. "Sure."
Kathryn hesitated. "There's one last thing."
"Yes?"
"I know it sounds weird, but... do you think there might be secret passages in the house?"
The look on the old man's face said that she'd gone too far.
"Secret passages?"
"Look, I admit I don't know much about Charon's Crossing. Or about this island, for that matter. But I do know that it wasn't uncommon for mansions of this period to have hidden doors and passages built into them. You can't tell me you never heard of such things!"
Hiram shrugged. "I've heard of them, I s'pose. But never with regard to Charon's Crossin'."
"Well, it won't hurt to check, will it?"
"No, I suppose not. I'm just not sure what you want me to do."
"Dammit," Kathryn snapped, "how should I know? You're the contractor, not me. Do whatever people do to find hollow places in the walls. Knock on them. Feel around the fireplace. Poke in the back of the closet..." She forced herself to smile. "Humor me, Hiram. Please?"
The old man nodded. "If that is what you wish, I will do it."
"Thank you. I'll be in the garden, if you need me."
She was heading towards the side of the house when Hiram's question stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Kathryn? Shall I change the lock on the cellar door, too?"
The cellar? Damn. Oh, damn. She'd been so busy worrying about the doors and the windows that she'd never even thought of the cellar. But she thought of it now, dank and damp and probably unlocked all the long hours since she'd first set foot in this house.
"Oh yes," she said, as if there weren't a sudden cold knot in her belly, "that's a good idea. Absolutely. Change the lock on the cellar door, too. That way, I'll be certain no one can get into the house."
"No one will," Hiram said, "unless, of course, it's haunts you're tryin' to keep out of Charon's Crossin'."
The old man's tone was so matter-of-fact, his expression so bland, that she thought she must have misunderstood him.
"Haunts?"
"Ghosts," he said calmly. "If that's what's payin' you visits, there's no lock in the world will keep it out."
She laughed. At least, she tried to laugh. But what came out sounded more like a croak.
"Why—why on earth would you say a thing like that?"
Hiram shrugged. "Well, considerin' the things you said yesterday, about chains draggin' and things moanin' in the night..."
"Come on, Hiram. I was joking!"
The old man was undeterred. "Folks say there's a spirit been trapped in this house for nigh onto two hundred yea
rs."
Kathryn felt as if a clammy hand had touched her.
"You didn't say that yesterday."
"You didn't ask."
"You're right. I didn't ask, because sensible people don't believe in such nonsense!"
Hiram shrugged his shoulders. "Sensible people admit that there are lots of things in this life that are beyond explanation."
"Yes, but a ghost..." Kathryn blew the hair back from her forehead. "Is that why you asked me if there was anything special about the man I saw? Because you think I saw this—this spirit?"
"They say his name is Matthew McDowell. And if you did see him, you'd be the first."
Kathryn stared at the old man. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was, she knew, a peaceful, even a beautiful, scene. But she felt as if she were standing in a dark cave with a chasm yawning at her feet.
She wanted to do something to defuse the moment. To laugh. To make a joke out of the whole thing. But the best she could manage was a wan smile.
"Let me get this straight," she said. "You're telling me there's a ghost in this house, that he's been here for two hundred years—and that I'm the first person unlucky enough to see him?"
"I'm only sayin' what I know," the old man replied.
"That's not only impossible, it's illogical. If no one's seen this ghost, how do you know who it is?"
The look Hiram gave her said that her question was patently foolish.
"Everybody knows who it is."
The wind, gusting in from the sea, sent a tremor across Kathryn's skin.
"Everybody but me," she said, trying for a light touch and failing miserably. "Well, that's what I said yesterday, isn't it? Here I am, the lucky owner of a house that comes complete with a built-in spook, and nobody tells me a thing." She cleared her throat, linked her hands loosely behind her, and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet. "I, uh, I don't suppose you know why he'd be haunting this house, do you?"
Hiram took a hammer and screwdriver from his tool kit and tucked them into his back pocket.
"He died here."
The old man's matter-of-fact tone caught her off guard.
"Here?" she said, her voice rising to a squeak. "At Charon's Crossing? Was there an accident?"
"It was no accident. Matthew McDowell was killed here." Hiram jerked a box of nails from the tool chest and dumped it into a pocket. "Executed, for piracy, just through that old trellis, in the garden out back." He turned and looked at her. "But there are those who say it was more a murder than an execution."
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