"Yes, Uncle Paul."
Peter spent the rest of the day sitting beside Dreyfus and comforting him.
The following morning the vet arrived as promised. He and Uncle Paul returned from the bush after what felt like an eternity, looking grim and puzzled.
"There's no sign of any occupation by wild dogs down there,” the vet told Aunt Angela. “In fact, there isn't much sign of any life at all. I realize bush birds tend to fall silent and disappear when humans approach, but we were as quiet as we could be. After all we didn't want to forewarn any wild dogs that might have been there.” He caught sight of Peter's drawn, unhappy face and gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. “Cheer up, young man. We'll sort it all out sooner or later. There's something wrong somewhere, but there's no doubt your German shepherd was attacked. Those tooth marks are very real. Incidentally, we went to that old house you mentioned passing. An enormous fellow with red hair and a beard answered the door. He said he was Professor Le Grud, a retired scientist. He told us he didn't own a dog of any sort. There was certainly no sign of a dog on the premises."
The vet left, leaving two puzzled adults and one miserable boy. Aunt Angela looked from her husband to her nephew and suggested a cup of tea and a piece of carrot cake, which cheered Peter up considerably.
As he sank his teeth into his second wedge, Peter looked at his uncle. “You do believe me, don't you?"
"I believe you thought you heard a boy singing, and that you thought you heard him call the dog Cerberus. I also believe you thought there was an opening behind those hanging plants. The only explanation I can come up with is that you might have sat down in the clearing and gone to sleep. After all, you'd had a pretty long trek from the beach. Someone might have walked along the path singing, and the singing got itself mixed up in your dream. The fact that a dog—or dogs—attacked Dreyfus is beyond question.” Uncle Paul sighed. “No doubt we'll find out what it's all about. In the meantime, stay away from the bush.” He rose. “I've got to go out,” he said to Aunt Angela. “I nearly forgot my appointment for a portrait sitting with Damien."
He left Peter about to tuck into another piece of cake while Aunt Angela cleared away the dishes.
"If you eat any more cake, Peter, you won't want your lunch. I bought a few books last week that I thought you might like. I haven't had a chance to give them to you, but perhaps now's the time for you to have them. It'll be a few days before Dreyfus will be fit to go out and you'll want to keep him company seeing he's not well. But you'll be bored stiff with nothing to do so perhaps you'd like to spend the time reading?"
"Gee, thanks, Aunt Angela."
Peter took the books, gave his aunt a swift hug, and bounded down the stairs back to his bedroom, where Dreyfus was patiently waiting, having been forbidden to mount the stairs. Peter spent the rest of the day reading and talking to the dog, only moving to take Dreyfus out into the garden when necessary, and to have his meals.
Chapter 3
Terror in the House
DREYFUS recovered so quickly he was able to go with Peter and his uncle when they received an invitation to spend the weekend on a friend's yacht.
The first thing Aunt Angela did before settling down for the evening was to turn on the downstairs burglar alarm. Upstairs this was activated from the bedroom and had to be turned off at the same switch. Then she settled down to watch television by the lights from the Christmas tree that she and Peter had spent the afternoon decorating.
She realized she had nodded off when thunder rolled in the distance, bringing her back to semi-wakefulness. Lightning flashed. A sudden clap directly overhead made her start, heart thumping. Her thoughts turned to her husband and Peter, out somewhere in the Hauraki Gulf. An eerie silence followed the last clap—no wind, no rain. Aunt Angela rose from her chair and turned off the TV, which for some reason was crackling and had lost its picture. The silence had become oppressive, when another noise made her jump. It sounded like the front door closing. The would-be sailors must have foreseen the storm and returned home, she thought.
"Is that you, Paul?"
The low growl of thunder in the distance was the only reply. Aunt Angela turned her head toward the stairwell, where a shaft of light showed through the window above the landing. Her heart jerked unpleasantly and her mouth went dry. She definitely hadn't left the hall light on.
Then the Christmas tree lights went out.
More sharply, Aunt Angela repeated her question. Again she received no reply. She stood waiting for the alarm to go off. But nothing happened. Distinctly shaken, she moved quietly to the stairwell window. What she saw made her step back involuntarily with a lung-splitting gasp of horror.
At the foot of the stairs stood a man with one hand on the banister. The light from the hall fell directly behind him. He was so large he seemed to fill the whole space. The hood on his black cloak was pulled forward, putting his face in deep shadow. For a brief moment Aunt Angela thought she had seen him before. Her efforts to work out why he appeared familiar started the tattoo in her temple that preceded a headache.
Her terror abated slightly as anger began to well inside her. “Who are you? What do you want?"
There was a brief silence before a low-pitched, dark voice replied. “Who I am is of no concern of yours at the moment. You'll find out soon enough. I want the boy."
"What boy?"
"I want the boy."
Aunt Angela hurried to the head of the stairs. “If you mean Peter, he's not here. He's gone away for the weekend.” She pressed the stairwell light-switch. Nothing happened. “What have you done to the lights?"
She could see only the top of the intruder's head as she leaned over the banister. A low chuckle came from the dark figure—a sound not of amusement but calculated, rather, to make the flesh creep.
"I've got as much light as I need. You can have the rest back later."
Aunt Angela started descending the stairs. For some reason she felt she had no choice: the figure standing in the entrance hall drew her toward it as a magnet draws a dressmaking pin. She was too angry to pay any regard to her own safety. “Get out of my house! Who do you think you are barging into my home and threatening me?"
The figure chuckled—a low, sinister sound. “You're plucky, little sister—I'll say that for you. I mean you no harm. In fact I couldn't seriously harm you—unfortunately. Otherwise you'd be dead. But I want the boy.” The flat, toneless voice turned vehement. “I must have the boy."
Aunt Angela reached the landing. She faced him squarely. “What do you want him for? I'm sure he doesn't know you any more than I do."
"You know me better than you think, pretty lady. Just tell him I want him. He knows what house to come to. My servant will meet him."
"Get out! Get out or I'll ring the police!” Aunt Angela moved forward, trying to see the face beneath the hood.
"I wouldn't come any further, little lady. You'll set off the alarm."
"Why haven't you set it off then?” Aunt Angela was curious in spite of her terror.
Two rows of white teeth flashed in a grin that was more like a wolf baring its fangs—the first sign that there was a face under the hood. The hand not resting on the banister darted from the folds of the cloak. “Okay. You asked for it!"
The man moved quickly. He placed one foot on the bottom step and leaned forward. The hand grasped Aunt Angela's bare arm before she could move away. It was like being touched by something colder than an iceberg. She screamed. The cold seared through her flesh as she backed away. She stumbled, fell backwards onto the stairs and slid to the hall floor.
Half-sobbing with pain, and temporarily paralyzed, she lay where she had fallen. Fearfully she looked up. But no one was there. The light on the wall (only one of the two was working) shone directly into her eyes. Down the passage toward the garage it was dim. But no one was there either. She became aware too late of the red light showing on the alarm's sensor: the deafening wail of the siren split the silence to shreds.
&
nbsp; Shaken to her soul, crying like a terror-stricken child, Aunt Angela stumbled to her feet and ran to the keypad. Frantically she pressed the buttons. But nothing happened. The wail still sounded above her head. Assuming she'd got the combination wrong, she pressed the buttons again—still to no avail. Realization dawned: she had switched on the alarm in the bedroom and it could only be switched off from there. She dragged herself upstairs and through the house to the bedroom. With nerveless fingers she pressed the switch—and the hideous din stopped. She collapsed on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.
She was beginning to pull herself together when the sound of the front door knocker made her jump and gasp. With visions of the intruder returning, she froze, staring rigidly at the open bedroom door. Her heart hammered. The knocking came again, this time more violently. This couldn't be happening to her. The alarm was supposed to protect her from this sort of terror.
Reluctantly she rose from the bed and stumbled through the house to the stairs. She leaned over the banister.
"Who's there?” Her voice was quavery with fear.
"It's me—Maggie! Are you all right, Angela?” She went faint with relief on hearing her next-door neighbor's voice.
She ran down the stairs and tried to open the door—but it was both locked and bolted. As she struggled with the bolt, she had time to wonder how come the door was bolted on the inside when the terrifying stranger must have left that way. Perhaps he'd gone through the garage. But surely he hadn't had time to lock and bolt the front door before leaving....
The door opened with a jerk and Aunt Angela, near-hysterical, all but fell into the arms of her neighbor.
"For goodness’ sake, Angela, what's happened? Have you been burgled? Tom's gone round the back—” Maggie stopped.
At that moment Tom loomed up behind her. “Is everything all right, Angela? I can't see any signs of anyone having broken in."
Once again Aunt Angela pulled herself together. “Come inside.” She dragged Maggie into the hall. Tom followed.
As soon as the light fell on Aunt Angela, Maggie gasped in horror, staring at her neighbor's left forearm. “Good God! Has somebody attacked you?” Aunt Angela looked down at her arm. Four angry red bars crossed it as though it had been burned by hot irons. “We'd better get something onto that. It looks nasty. Tom's better at first aid than I am. He can fix you up while I make some tea. Then you'd better tell us what happened."
Aunt Angela locked and bolted the door. Tom went to turn on the stairwell light but pressed the wrong switch and plunged them into darkness. Aunt Angela gave a small gasp like a strangled scream and Tom quickly switched the light back on. It was brighter than before and Aunt Angela noted through her stupefaction that both lights were now burning. Next moment Tom had switched on the stairwell lights and both kindly neighbors helped the shaken woman up the stairs as they would a frail and elderly relative.
Soon they were sitting in the kitchen drinking tea while Aunt Angela told her neighbors everything that had happened.
"He—he didn't set the alarm off because he obviously had some protective barrier around him. This burn—” and she indicated her bandaged arm “—was done by cold, not heat. And yet I'll swear it was a hand that touched me—not a glove. He had a sort of cloak over his shoulders with a hood pulled well forward. He—he looked as though he didn't have any face at all until he bared his teeth in that awful grin before he touched me. I screamed and sort of slid down the stairs. I should've banged into him on the way down—but he wasn't there! Then of course I set the alarm off—” She stopped. She looked at Maggie and Tom miserably. “It sounds like a fantastic story. You must think I'm mad."
"Not with the evidence of that burn,” Tom said grimly. “You're perfectly right, Angela. It's the sort of burn one gets from dry ice—only worse. But what beats me is how he could touch you with something like dry ice and make it seem as though it was his hand. And he must have been encased in the stuff not to trigger the alarm."
"And how did he get in and out of the house? The doors were all bolted and the windows downstairs were all properly closed. He just suddenly appeared and switched on the hall light. The light fell behind him and his face was in shadow. He also looked larger than he must have been. I've never seen such an enormous man."
"Is Paul away for the weekend?” When Aunt Angela nodded over her cup of tea Tom went on briskly: “Then you'd better lock up securely, turn the alarm back on and come and sleep in our house. I want to speak to Paul as soon as he returns."
"But—but what if he comes back—?"
"Well, then, you won't be here to be terrorized,” Maggie said. “It sounds to me as though that's what he was up to. With his talents he could have entered during the night and taken whatever he fancied, if burglary had been his game."
"What—what if he comes to your house—?” Aunt Angela stared at her neighbors, her gray eyes so full of terror they looked black.
Tom rose. He was tall and burly. Aunt Angela knew that as a policeman he would also be very fit. His bulk as he stood in her brightly lit kitchen that night was a great comfort.
"I think I'm quite capable of dealing with the villain—and the Devil help him if I ever get my hands on him! Thank God my son is still so young—nowhere near thirteen!” Tom stopped as though recollecting himself. His words had begun to make no sense. He cleared his throat, as though embarrassed. “And talking of children, Maggie, we'd better get back to ours before they wake up and realize we're not there. You help Angela pack whatever she needs and I'll get back to the house—unless you'd rather not stay without me?"
Maggie shook her heard. “No, no. Off you go. We'll only be a few minutes. I'm sure we'll be all right."
Throwing a speculative look at Aunt Angela—as though, she thought bitterly, he considered she was batty—Tom thundered down the stairs. He left by way of the garage and the women heard the Yale lock click behind him.
Aunt Angela grabbed the things she needed and she and Maggie were soon on their way to the house next door. Behind them in the narrow hall leading from the garage, the red light on the switchboard of the burglar alarm flashed on and off, showing that the equipment was primed.
In the house next door, one by one, the lights went out. The two houses settled into darkness and comparative silence.
Outside all was still. A snuffling hedgehog froze in his tracks as a cold shadow passed over him. Noiselessly the shadow approached the front door of Aunt Angela's home. Then it was gone.
The light of a torch sprang up inside. The dark shadow ascended the stairs, passing the electronic beam of the burglar alarm. There was no click as the device sensed warmth and no warning red light showed—because there was no heat to be detected. The same phenomenon occurred when the black form walked through the living room. It went to the bedroom where it systematically went through all the drawers. An exclamation of annoyance followed the final drawer and the shadow passed back into the hall and went into a smaller room.
"Ah! This looks more like it!” The room was obviously an office or study. One by one he opened all the drawers in the desk and filing cabinet. Carefully he read every document, casting some aside with expressions of impatience. Others he read greedily. “Ah! I've got you now, Paul Merrilyn! At last I know you are who I suspected you were. You'll not find me wanting again."
The dark apparition moved back to the living room and then to the stairwell. As it moved, it muttered constantly. “I want the boy! I must have the boy! I must get him before it's too late!"
At the foot of the stairs the apparition switched off the torch. Darkness settled over the house again. For a few moments nothing stirred. No sound was heard. There was nothing to see. Then outside the house, as though he had just that second closed the door, appeared the form of a large man wearing a black cloak. He moved noiselessly across the parking area and stood in the drive looking up at the house next door.
"Sweet dreams, little sister,” he muttered mockingly. “I'll help you along the way. And you
'll wake up, pretty angel, when I say and not before.” He extended a hand toward the house. Silent blue fire poured from his fingertips. “Would that it could kill you,” he muttered venomously. “But at least it'll make sure you give the little creep my message."
Inside the house the fire touched Angela Merrilyn's face. She whimpered and stirred restlessly. The figure on the drive chuckled with a mixture of genuine amusement and malice. Then as it disappeared into the street Aunt Angela turned over and mumbled something. Her restlessness lasted the whole night. She was glad to wake up to broad daylight.
* * * *
ON SUNDAY evening while Peter was downstairs, Aunt Angela told her husband everything. Uncle Paul looked grim but all he said was, “It's no good going to the police with a story like that. They won't believe you. All we can do is make sure you're not left alone any more."
"Yes, but what about Peter? We can hardly confine him to the house for the rest of his holiday—and that's what not leaving him on his own would amount to. Remember he—the intruder—said he meant me no harm but that he wanted the boy."
So engrossed were the adults in their discussion they failed to hear Peter come up the stairs.
"Who wants me, Aunt Angela?” he said, appearing abruptly at the door of the kitchen, where his aunt and uncle were talking.
Aunt Angela, at a nod from Uncle Paul, reluctantly repeated her story. The horror on Peter's face disturbed them but both felt that in the long run it was best Peter knew the whole story.
"So,” Aunt Angela said at the end, “we'd like you to make sure you don't speak to any strangers. And keep away from the bush. It's too easy for someone to follow and grab you down there."
Peter looked at his uncle. Uncle Paul gave a slight shake of his head, from which Peter gathered his aunt still didn't know that he had been grabbed down in the bush. He readily promised he would keep away from the area and that he would talk to no strangers. He felt it would be an easy promise to keep.
Peter found, however, that keeping promises depended on the type of pressure put on the one making the promise, and how much pressure was exerted....
The Obsidian Quest [Search for Earthlight Trilogy Book 1] Page 3