Rowena's eyes snapped open, and she sat up in her bed, shaking and perspiring. She looked wildly around the room and, suddenly terrified by the darkness, she switched on her table lamp. The sight of the familiar surroundings calmed her slightly, and she closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh.
And then she heard Adrienne Lupescu's voice, quite clear and distinct, say, "Flee!"
She jumped from the bed and backed over to the door of the room. She was alone. "Dreaming," she whispered to herself. "I was dreaming. I must have been dreaming."
"Flee, Rowena," the voice said again, and the girl bolted from the room, slamming the door loudly behind her and then leaning against it out in the corridor, her heart racing and her knees shaking violently.
She heard the front door open and close and then heard soft, muted voices drifting up from the foyer. She recognized her father's voice, and Mark Siegal's, and assumed that the other voices belonged to the members of his band. She pulled her nightgown tight around her neck against the strange chill she felt in the warm house, and went downstairs.
She found her father sitting pensively in a chair in the sitting room just off the foyer. He had removed his coat and was staring off into space. Herricks, Mahoney, Strube, and Siegal stood around him, making pointless small talk, glancing at their watches and looking uncomfortable and eager to leave. She entered the room and leaned against the wall beside the door, ignoring their delicate greetings, not responding when they said good-bye, not turning to see if they closed the front door behind them when they left.
She and her father were silent in the now empty room. A long time seemed to pass before he said, without looking at her, "I'm sorry, Rowena. I'm so sorry." She did not answer him
"I never, never meant to hurt anybody. I was just trying to make money, trying to be successful, trying to keep a roof over our heads." He looked over at her, and as their eyes met she noticed how old he seemed to have become, how deeply lined his face was, how his lips trembled as he spoke. "You're supposed to want to be successful, aren't you? Everybody wants to be successful." She still did not answer him, and he looked away; "I had no idea that Gwen was so crazy. No idea."
"What did the police say?" she asked at last.
He sighed. "Took our statements, got descriptions of Gwen and Adrienne. They believed us when we told them the whole story, but there may still be charges against me. Reckless endangerment, something like that. Maybe they just said that to scare me, to make sure I was telling the truth. I don't know."
The silence descended once again. Rowena walked over and sat down upon the sofa. She sighed. "Oh, Daddy!"
Simon began to weep. "I'm sorry, honey, really I am. I'm so sorry!"
She shook her head. "That doesn't help, Daddy. That doesn't help one bit."
He buried his face in his hands. "I don't know what else to say."
They were silent for a few more moments and then Rowena said, "Adrienne came to me in a dream."
"Huh?" Simon sniffed. "You dreamed about Adrienne?"
"That's not what I said. I said she came to me in a dream." Simon stared at his daughter and thought, Jesus, Row, don't lose your grip. "What do you mean?"
"She warned me to get out of here. She said that Gwendolyn will kill us all in thirty-four days, on Candlemas Eve. She told me to flee."
Simon rose from his seat and walked over to her. He sat down beside her and took her hand. It was cold, limp, unresponsive to his touch. "Row, honey, it was just a dream."
"She kept telling me to run away, even after I woke up."
"Honey—"
"Daddy, I was standing up, wide awake, in the room with the light on, and I still heard her." She looked into her father's eyes and her face assumed an aspect of fear and desperation. "I wasn't dreaming that I heard her voice. I don't know who or what she and Gwendolyn are, but they aren't just crazy people. Daddy, we have to get away from here before Candlemas Eve!"
"Okay, okay, Row," he said comfortingly, patting her hand, "we'll talk about it in the morning, okay? Why don't you go and try to get some sleep."
She nodded, suddenly very tired. "Yeah, okay." She rose without another word and walked slowly back upstairs.
Simon watched her go and then walked over to the liquor cabinet near the window. He took out a bottle of bourbon and, without bothering to get a glass, uncorked it and poured some of the fiery liquid down his throat. He felt warmed and comforted by the bourbon, and he gazed out the window and sighed.
Poor Rowena, he thought. I hope this is just a temporary thing. Her emotions are all twisted up right now . . . well, of course they would be, wouldn't they, seeing her boyfriend murdered like that? Of course, of course. She'll probably be okay tomorrow. Adrienne came to her in a dream! He laughed humorlessly. The poor kid.
The sitting-room window resounded with a sudden, jarring thud, and Simon leapt back, startled. He felt his heart rise into his throat, and then settled in relief as he saw the cause of the sound. Calm down, he told himself. No murdering psychopaths. No witches out there. No ghoulies, no ghosties, no long-legged beasties. Just a bird.
A bird had lighted on the outer sill of the window and had knocked into the glass, doubtless tossed there by a sudden gust of wind. Simon heaved a sigh of relief. Just an animal, just a bird. Gotta take it easy, he thought. Gonna start jumping at every sound. He walked back over to the window and looked at the bird. He smiled.
His smile faded as the bird gazed back up at him with its blank expression. The bird raised one leg, balancing itself precariously upon the other, and placed its talons upon the outer face of the window. The bird scraped its claws slowly and threateningly down the surface of the glass. Simon and the bird stared intently at each other for a few moments, and then the creature flapped its wings and flew off into the night.
Simon Proctor reached out to steady himself against the wall, feeling his knees grow weak and his body begin to tremble. He stumbled backward away from the window and sat down heavily in the chair.
"My God!" he whispered, his voice shaking, his hands shaking, his entire body shaking. "My God! My God!"
Simon had been born and raised a country boy, and had spent many boyhood hours in the woods and fields and mountains of New Hampshire. His familiarity with the wildlife of the region was thus extensive, and he knew many things about the creatures which inhabited the White Mountains of New England.
He knew some things about ravens.
They did not have green eyes.
CANDLEMAS EVE
My days are consumed like smoke,
and my bones are burned like an hearth.
By reason of the voice of my groaning
my bones cleave to my skin.
I am like a vulture of the wilderness:
I am like an owl of the desert.
Mine enemies reproach me all the day,
and they that are mad against me are sworn against me.
For I have eaten ashes like bread,
and mingled my drink with weeping.
PSALM 102
Chapter Twenty-One
January 29
"Well, I think he's nuts," Larry Herricks said as he poured another stream of warm beer down his throat. "Out of his fuckin' mind, you know? A goddamn space cadet, if you ask me."
Herricks looked for agreement in the faces of the other members of the band as they sat pensively at the now-deserted bar of "Tom's basement." Mark Siegal was buttoning his jacket as he tossed the last few drops of bourbon into his mouth and set his glass loudly down upon the bar top. Carl Strube and Tom Mahoney were each nursing their beers. None of them nodded in response to Herricks's statements. Siegal sighed. "Look, Larry, I don't think it's true either, and I don't know if Simon really believes it. He may just be on edge, like, real nervous about this whole thing, you know?"
"Nervous!" Herricks laughed. "I'll say he's nervous! On his way to a fuckin' nervous breakdown!"
"Maybe so," Strube said. "But there are certain facts here. We all saw Gwen murder that kid. That's a f
act. And we all heard her say she was gonna wipe out Simon's whole family. That's a fact too. We know that she is capable of murder, and we know that she threatened them with murder." He sipped his beer. "Reason enough to get the hell out of there, if you ask me.
"Yeah, right, sure," Herricks said sarcastically. "A month later, right? The day before holy fuckin' witch's day or whatever it is, right? Warned in a dream, right?" He spat with disgust. "Gimme a break, man! This is nuts!"
Siegal finished buttoning his jacket. "I don't know why you're so annoyed about it, Larry. I'm the one going up there to help them move, not you. So what's the big deal?"
"The big deal," he replied heatedly, "is that just when we start making money, real money, for the first time in the past few years, Simon throws the whole thing overboard because he's scared of witches! No video, no more records, no more concerts! I mean, Jesus!"
"He thinks it may be a matter of life and death," Mahoney pointed out. "He's scared, man. Wouldn't you be scared?"
"Nah, of course not!" Herricks replied. "You think I'd let a couple of schized-out chicks freak me out like that?"
"Okay, John Wayne," Strube said tiredly. "What do you think he should do?"
"Get 'em arrested, lock 'em up! Get some other chicks for the act! Shit, there's gotta be thousands of chicks can wiggle their tits like Gwen. I mean, what's the big deal, you know?"
"The big deal," Mahoney repeated, "is that it may be a matter of life and death."
"It's bullshit," Herricks said glumly and finished his beer. He grimaced. "Hey, Tommy, ain'tcha got nothin' cold around here? Why do we always gotta drink warm beer in this place?"
"Cold stuff's for people who pay for it," Mahoney replied pointedly.
"Tom," Strube said, "let's go downstairs and bring up some cold brew. Maybe it'll shut him up."
"Fuck you," Herricks muttered.
"Look, I gotta go," Siegal said. "I'll probably see you guys day after tomorrow, after I drop them off at the airport."
"Try to get here before the last show's over," Mahoney said. "I got a new group from Long Island booked, starting tomorrow. You gotta hear them. They're damn good."
"Yeah, sure, I'll try," Siegal said as he walked toward the door. "See you."
"Take it easy," Strube said.
"Bye," Mahoney waved. Herricks said nothing. "Come on, Carl. Let's go get Weeping Beauty here a cold beer."' Mahoney and Strube laughed as they went to the rear door of the room and proceeded downstairs to the cellar. One of the drawbacks to the club was the absence of taps for beer kegs, so that only bottled beer was available for the customers. Refrigeration facilities upstairs in the bar were limited, so that Mahoney or his employees had to make frequent trips downstairs throughout a business night to replenish the stock of cold beer.
Herricks watched them go. "Assholes,"' he muttered. "Dumb, stupid, fuckin' assholes." He got unsteadily to his feet and meandered from the bar over to the DJ's platform in the corner of the large room. Listen to some music, he thought to himself. Cheer myself up. He grabbed an album at random without looking at it and pulled the disk roughly from the dust cover. Witches, he thought as he dropped the album onto the turntable and switched on the system. Christ Almighty! Witches! What an asshole Simon is!
He walked back to the bar and sat down heavily upon the stool as the loud music began to reverberate through the room. He ran his fingers absently up and down the empty beer bottle as the unfamiliar rock group boomed from the speakers.
"Have you ever wondered what it means when people say,
'To the Devil give his due,' or 'There'll be hell to pay'?
Have you ever wondered why the mighty human brain
Which could create such peace and joy makes misery and pain?
There's a power working.
Beneath the surface there's a power working.
You can turn your heart to heaven,
You can give your soul to hell.
Either way there's a power working."
"Shit," he muttered as he rose to his feet. "Doesn't anybody sing about sex and drugs anymore?" He ambled over to the DJ's platform and pulled the arm of the turntable roughly from the record, sending a screech tearing through the room. He chose another album, more carefully this time. "Year of the Cat," he muttered. "Al Stewart. That's good. Mellow me out a bit." He put the album on the turntable and returned to the bar. Where the hell are those guys? he asked himself. Wish they'd hurry up.
He drummed his fingers on the bar top as the music filled the room. He was not listening to it. He was thinking. Three-hundred-year-old witches! Incredible! How can Simon actually believe shit like that? Sure, the chicks are nuts, anybody can see that. But to run away from them, and to Idaho, of all places! He frowned and shook his head as Al Stewart's voice drifted around him.
"It seems to me as though I've been upon this stage before,
And juggled away the nights with the same old crowd.
These harlequins you see with me, they too have held the floor,
As here once again they strut and they fret their hour.
I see those half-familiar faces in the second row, Ghost-like, with the footlights in their eyes.
But where or when we met like this last time I just don't know.
It's like a chord that rings and never dies, For infinity."
It's impossible, he thought to himself. More than impossible. It's ridiculous! When you die, you're dead, and that's the end of it. Nobody comes back from the dead, nobody lives again or anything like that. No heaven or hell, no rebirth, no reincarnation, no afterlife. It's bullshit, it's all bullshit.
"And now these figures in the wings with all their restless tunes
Are waiting around for someone to call their names.
They walk the backstage corridors and prowl the dressing rooms,
And vanish to specks of light in the picture frames.
But did they move upon the stage a thousand years ago,
In some play in Paris or Madrid?
And was I there among them then, in some traveling show,
And is it all still locked inside my head
For infinity?"
But what if? he thought. What if there is something, some, I don't know, some part of us which lives on after death? What if hate lives on, or love lives on, or something like that? What if there really was somebody from back in Salem, centuries ago, who made a deal with the Devil? . . . What if there really is a Devil? . . . Nah . . . nah, that's stupid, stupid. Nuts, that's all. They're just a couple of nuts.
"And some of you are harmonies to all the notes I play.
Although we may not meet, still you know me well,
While others speak in secret keys and transpose all I say,
And nothing I do or try can get through the spell.
So one more time we'll dim the lights and ring the curtain up
And play again like all the times before.
But far behind the music you can almost hear the sound
Of laughter, like the waves upon the shore
Of infinity. . . ."
"Bullshit," Herricks muttered. "Nothin' but bullshit." He shook his head vigorously and glanced over toward the rear door of the room. Where the hell are those guys? he wondered. If they're doin' a joint and trying to cut me out, I'll flatten 'em!
He slid off the stool and weaved his way back toward the door. He pushed it open loudly and called out, "Hey! Carl, Tommy! What the fuck you guys doin', brewin' it fresh down there?" There was no answer. "Hey! What the fuck you guys doin'?"
He waited a moment for a reply, but none was forthcoming. "Shit," he muttered again and began to descend the stairs to the cellar. "Hey, Tommy! What the hell are you guys doin'?" He attempted to sound friendly. "Look, if you're blowin' some weed, save some for me, okay?"
He reached the bottom of the stairs and knocked on the cellar door. "Hey! You guys in there? Hey, Tommy? Carl?" He knocked again and then detected a strange, slightly repellent odor. He stepped back a few
feet from the door and heard his boots make a soft squishing sound as he moved them. Herricks looked down and saw that he was standing in a thick pool of—of—
"Jesus Christ!" he shouted and jumped up onto the bottom step. "Tommy! Carl! Mahoney!" There was no reply. Herricks stepped back down into the red pool and carefully pushed the door open. He leaned his head inside and looked around the dimly lighted cellar. "Hey you guys!" he called out. "Are you okay? Are you in here?" He stepped cautiously into the storeroom and squinted to see in the dim light. "Hey, guys, this isn't funny! What'd you do, kill a chicken down here or something? Tommy? Carl?"
He walked a few feet farther into the room and then stopped, frozen, horrified by the sight which presented itself to him, stunned and nauseated by what he saw upon the floor of the cellar.
Larry Herricks screamed at the top of his lungs and turned to run, his feet slipping on the blood beneath them. He did not make it to the top of the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Two
January 31
It had taken them more than a month to persuade old Floyd to abandon the family homestead. Rowena and Simon were ready to leave weeks before, and Lucas and Karyn, both more shaken up by the events of the so-called wedding day than either of them liked to admit, were eager to join them. But Floyd was adamant in his refusal to run away from what he regarded as a couple of madwomen, and weeks had gone by before Simon and Rowena had worn down his resistance. Thus it was that they were making ready to leave just one day before the day about which Rowena had been warned in her dream.
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