Bethany's Sin

by Robert R. McCammon

  He stood before the door, his senses vibrating, his face pinpointed with sweat. Above him loomed the museum, casting a spiderish shadow on the impeccable green lawn. Very slowly he lifted his arm, his eyes widening, widening because he knew what lay inside: a thing with gleaming, hate-filled eyes that would reach out to him with a clawlike hand. He put his hand against the door, feeling his nerves shriek. And he pushed.

  But the door wouldn’t open. It was locked from within.

  He pushed again, harder, then took his fist and struck the wood; he could hear the sound of the blow echoing inside, echoing through long corridors filled with…what? Junk, Mrs. Demargeon had said. Just old junk.

  Evan struck the door again. And again. No, this wasn’t in the dream. Something was wrong. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Open and let me see you. Open. Open, damn you. Open!

  “Hey!” someone called out. “What are you doing there?”

  Evan turned toward the voice, blinking his eyes into focus.

  There was a police car pulling up to the curb in front of the house. A man in uniform got out and began to stride hurriedly toward him. “What are you doing there?” the man asked again.

  “I’m…Nothing,” Evan said, his voice sounding strained and distant. “Nothing.”

  “Yeah? Well, what are you doing here, then?” The man wore a sheriff’s uniform, and in his broad face, hard eyes caught Evans and held them.

  “I was just…going inside,” Evan said.

  “Inside?” Oren Wysinger’s eyes narrowed. “They’re closed for the day. They’re not open on a regular schedule, anyway.” He paused for a moment, looking into the mans eyes and seeing something there that disturbed him, as if a pool of, water had begun rippling suddenly and there was no way of knowing what had moved beneath the surface. “Who are you?” Wysinger asked quietly.

  “Reid, Evan Reid. I…live over on McClain Terrace.”

  “Reid? The new family just moved in?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh.” Wysinger dropped his gaze away from Evan’s. “Sorry I was so abrupt, Mr. Reid. But not many people come here, and when I saw you hammering at the door I didn’t know what was going on.”

  “It’s okay.” Evan ran a hand over his face, feeling the heat in his flesh dying away now, degree by degree. “I understand. I was curious about this place.”

  Wysinger nodded. “It’s closed up,” he said. “Hey, are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m…tired. That’s all.”

  “I don’t see a car. Are you walking?”

  Evan nodded. “I was on my way back to McClain.”

  “You want a lift? I was driving that way.”

  “All right,” Evan said. “That would be fine.”

  They walked back across to the police car. Evan turned and stared at the museum for a moment, then tore his gaze away and closed the car door behind him. Wysinger started the engine and drove toward McClain. “I’m Oren Wysinger,” he said, offering Evan one large, rough, seamed hand. “I’m sheriff in the village; sorry I didn’t recognize you back there. Guess I’m just distrustful by nature.”

  “You were doing your job.”

  “Well, yeah,” Wysinger said, “but sometimes I suppose I can get carried away. You feeling any better now.”

  “Yes, thanks. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I was very tired and I…anyway, I’m okay now.”

  “Good.” Wysinger turned his head slightly, glanced at the man’s profile and then back at the street. “The museum opens at nine on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Sometimes on Tuesdays, too. It just depends on a lot of things: the weather, how many people are working on the staff that particular day, things like that. You sure seemed in a hurry to get in there.”

  “I didn’t know it was locked,” Evan said. He could feel Wysinger’s eyes on him; then the man looked away again. “I’d like to see what’s inside,” he said.

  “It’s pretty interesting, if you like that kind of thing,” Wysinger told him. “Statues and stuff. I find it on the dry side myself.”

  “What kind of statues?”

  Wysinger shrugged. “To me a statue’s a statue. There are other things, too. Old stuff.”

  “Tell me something,” Evan said. “Bethany’s Sin is such a small village, I find it strange that there should be such a large museum. Or a museum at all, for that matter. Who built it?”

  “The house itself’s been here for a long time,” Wysinger said. “The historical society went in and remodeled it, tore out a lot of the smaller rooms and widened the hallways. Added another floor, too.” He turned onto McClain. “It’s the white house with the green, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right. So where did the historical society get those things to display inside?”

  “I don’t really know, Mr. Reid. To tell you the truth, I don’t turn in the same circles with those ladies in the society. I’m kind of out of touch, I guess you could say.” He slowed the car and turned toward the curb.

  “Are they local relics?” Evan persisted. “Indian artifacts?”

  Wysinger smiled slightly. “I couldn’t tell you Indian from Japanese, Mr. Reid. You’ll have to go over there when they’re open sometime and see for yourself.” He stopped the car at the curb in front of Evan’s house. “Here we are. Nice house you’ve got yourself there.”

  Evan climbed out and closed the door, and Wysinger leaned over to roll down the window. “Sorry I haven’t been by to welcome you to the village. My work keeps me pretty well wrapped up, though. I’ll look forward to meeting your wife and kids sometime.”

  “Just one,” Evan said. “A little girl.”

  “Oh. Again”—Wysinger shrugged—“sorry I came on strong over at the museum.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Fine, then. I’d better get back. You take care of yourself, now. Be seeing you.” Wysinger raised a hand and then drove away along McClain, turning back for the village and disappearing.

  Evan walked along the path toward his front door, glancing over at the Demargeon house. No car in the driveway. The house silent. He wondered if Harris Demargeon was home, almost walked over there, decided not to disturb the man. He took his house key from his pocket and unlocked the front door, stepped into the entrance foyer, closed the door behind him. Kay and Laurie would be home in about a half hour. He went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water, and then sat down in a chair in the den. The manuscript returned by Esquire lay on a table beside him and he kept his gaze away from it. He tried to relax but found his muscles still stiff, a strange tingling in his arms and legs as if the blood had just flowed back into them from reservoirs in his heart. For a long time he sat still, his mind weaving together the pieces of a tapestry that he could not yet understand. Imagination? Were his feelings all imagination, just like Kay said? What’s this fear inside me? he asked himself. And why in God’s name does it seem to be growing stronger day by day, and me weaker?

  His mind’s eye saw the museum at the center of the village, and everything else turning around it. Then blinked. Jess’s eyes, hooded and distant. Blinked again. That picture on the wall in the library, the plaque beneath it. Dr. Kathryn Drago? Another blink. A shadow across a curtained window, the figure missing its left arm. And even when he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, the eye in his mind that saw with a much more terrible clarity remained staring at the picture fragments whirling through his head like sparks thrown off a pinwheel.

  For he knew what had happened this afternoon, knew why he’d been drawn to the museum, knew and dreaded the knowledge with an awful certainty. As his premonitions—imagination, Kay would say; imagination you know it’s only that and nothing more I don’t like to hear you cry out in the middle of the night it makes my head ache—as his premonitions were growing stronger, they were beginning to affect more than his dreams. They were beginning to seep through that curtain between two worlds. The second sight—a gift, his mother had said; a curse, his father had muttered
, Eric is dead found him in the field Evan Why didn’t you help him?—that had come down to him through generations, from his grandfather Frederick and his great-great-grandfather Ephran and God only knew how many others hidden away in the tangle of the family tree, was sharpening, intensifying, frighteningly so. That had never happened before, never, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. Or where it would lead. As his premonitions became more immediate, would they take control of him, finally breaking entirely free of his dreams and shadowing his steps in the world of the living? Jesus, he thought: he would see everything through the eye of his mind, good or evil, beautiful or dripping with soulless horror. He didn’t want to think about that because it made him afraid of what lay ahead. No. Have to control myself, have to keep those things out of myself because if I were overpowered by them what would…Kay’s reaction be? Horror? Disgust? Pity?

  And so he sat in the den, in company with those quick and fleeting visions, until he heard the door come open and Kay and Laurie were home, both smiling and happy and unaware.

  15

  * * *

  Kay’s Dream

  “WE WERE INVITED to a party today,” Kay told Evan from the bed; he stood in the bathroom brushing his teeth. “On Saturday night,” she added after a few seconds.

  He rinsed out his mouth, looked at his teeth in the mirror. Straight and even. He’d never had any problems at all with his teeth, no braces and very few cavities. “Whose party?” he asked.

  “The head of the history department at George Ross. Her name is Dr. Drago.”

  Evan stiffened suddenly, then relaxed and put his toothbrush in its proper place near the drinking cup. He grunted and said, “Did you meet her?”

  “Yes, I did. A very strange meeting, too. Someone was prowling around my office this afternoon; or I thought someone was, but I’m probably wrong. Anyway, I met her in her classroom and we talked for a few minutes. Do you remember that large house just outside the village? That’s hers.”

  Evan switched off the bathroom light and walked into the bedroom. Kay sat in bed with her knees up, supporting the July issue of Redbook. The soft glow of the night table lamp at her side cast a canopy of shadows across the ceiling. “A formal party?” he asked her, crossing to the bed.

  “No, nothing like that. She said it’s just going to be a get-together for some of the faculty members.”

  He drew aside the sheets and slid into bed, sitting up against his pillow. “What does she look like?”

  “Oh, she’s dark-haired. Kind of a big woman, I guess.” She was silent for a moment, and Evan looked at her. “Her eyes,” Kay said. “They’re very…striking and…its funny…”

  “What’s funny?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing. She’s a very distinctive woman. Her gaze is…direct, strong. And her eyes are the most beautiful greenish blue I’ve ever seen. Really.”

  Evan smiled. “You sound like someone else I talked to today.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “A woman named Anne, who works over at the library. I’ve already heard about this Kathryn Drago from her. Did you know she is also the mayor of Bethany’s Sin?”

  “My God,” Kay said in amazement. “How does she find time to plan parties?”

  “And she began the historical society that operates that museum over on Cowlington Street. I’d say she has a pretty full schedule, wouldn’t you?”

  “For sure. But she seems like a very composed, well organized woman.”

  “I’d say she has to be. You know, I’m catching in your voice something I heard in that librarian’s. A swelling admiration. Of course, I agree the woman’s to be admired and respected, but you should have heard the lady at the library. It bordered on hero worship.”

  Kay was silent for a moment. “There’s something about that woman,” she said finally, “that commands respect. Yes, that’s the word I was looking for, commands. When I stood before her I felt…small. As if she were of a huge, looming stature and I was absolutely insignificant. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Awe,” Evan said. “It was sheer awe. And maybe a little nervousness about being the new kid on the block.”

  Kay closed her magazine and put it aside, but she didn’t move to turn off the light. Instead, she sat very still for a while, and Evan took her hand and held it gently. “Sorry,” she said. “I was thinking about something.” Then she lapsed into silence again.

  “School? Got some bad boys and girls in your classes?” He saw she was distant, her eyes unfocused and glassy. “Hey,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?” He waited, then nudged her. “What’s wrong?” he asked when she looked at him.

  “Thinking. About—and I don’t know why—that woman’s eyes. The way she stared at me.”

  Evan stroked her arm, feeling there a tension that seemed to radiate out of her as if a spring were being wound at the center of her soul. Tighter and tighter and tighter. “Her eyes?” he asked, watching her carefully. What is it I’m feeling? he asked himself. Something’s wrong.

  “Yes. When she stared at me I…couldn’t move. I really couldn’t. Those eyes were so incredibly beautiful and so…incredibly strong. I felt very strange on the drive home, as if even my bones were trembling, but by the time I picked up Laurie and got home, the feeling had gone, and instead everything seemed…especially right, as if everything’s moving as it’s supposed to.”

  “Everything is.” Evan said, and kissed her cheek. Her flesh was tight and cool. “Do you want to go to Dr. Drago’s party?”

  Kay paused. “Yes,” she said Finally. “I do.”

  “Okay. We’ll go. I’d like to see what this superwoman looks like, anyway. Why don’t you turn off the light now?”

  She nodded and reached over, switched it off. Darkness eagerly filled the room. Evan moved beneath the sheets for Kay, kissing her cheek again and then her lips, very lightly and gently at first, in the way he knew she liked. Melding his body against hers, holding her tight and soothingly, he kissed her lips and waited for her to respond.

  But she didn’t. She drew the sheet up around her and, without saying a word to him, moved very slightly away.

  He was stung and confused. He wondered if he’d done something wrong: hurt her feelings? inadvertently forgotten something? He started to ask her what was wrong when he realized her flesh was cooling; it startled him at first, but he lay motionless beside her with a hand on her bare shoulder and thought he could actually feel the warmth being drawn from her flesh. She was silent and breathing regularly, but because he couldn’t see her face, he didn’t know if her eyes were open or closed. “Kay?” he said softly. No answer. “Kay?” Silence.

  She didn’t move. Evan lay awake beside her for a long time. Her flesh felt strange: cool and clammy, like the wrinkled flesh of a person who has sat for hours in a tub of tepid water. Or like the cooling flesh of a corpse. Still, her breathing was normal, shallowing now as she slept. Evan leaned over, gently moved Kay’s hair away from her face, and looked down at her features. She was a beautiful woman: sensitive, highly intelligent, tender and caring. He knew that he loved her, had always loved her, and he knew also how much he’d hurt her in the last few years, and despised himself for it. She sought above all permanence and security, and Evan realized he’d broken her dreams again and again because of his own insecurities and the raging inner fears that threatened sometimes to leap from his throat. He’d led both Kay and Laurie down one terrible cul-de-sac after another, and the bitter realization of how much he’d shaken both their lives cut to the marrow of his bones. They deserved better than what he’d been able to give them; sometimes he wondered if they might be in better shape without him. But he’d never voiced those thoughts; he’d only considered them.

  He looked at Kay awhile longer, then lay back and closed his eyes. As he drifted toward sleep, he thought he felt Kay move suddenly beside him, as if something had disturbed her, but in another moment he decided it must have been his imagination. As the darkness took him, he sudd
enly envisioned that etching of Artemis in the library. Saw the staring eyes. Thought of Kay’s reaction to Kathryn Drago. Drago. Drago. The name thundered hollowly within him.

  And then, finally, he slept without dreaming.

  But Kay did not.

  She had found herself in a strange and foreign place where the sun burned red and high and vultures spun in dark circles above a death-littered plain. Bodies were strewn in bloody heaps, and the trash of battle lay scattered about her feet. But the implements were…different. Swords and spears, crushed helmets, battered shields, breastplates. And other things. Dead and dying horses, human arms and legs ripped from their sockets, decapitated trunks of bodies. Here a black-bearded warrior begging for mercy, the blood oozing from a gash in his belly. And Kay found herself approaching the man, and as her shadow lengthened and fell across him, he looked at her with blind terror in his eyes and held up his hands before his face. She stood over him, watching.

  And knew that she wanted to destroy him. To reach inside and wrench out his dripping intestines. To grind him beneath her boot.

  He spoke, in a dialect Kay didn’t understand at first, but then the words seemed to take meaning inside her head: “…spare my life…in the name of the gods spare my life…”

  Kay knew the others were watching. She felt the hate rise within her like bitter bile. “Here is my mercy,” she said, her voice sounding low and guttural and not like her own at all. And in the next instant her arm had come down, the weapon grasped in her hand cleaving the air with an eerie whistling noise. The ax blade bit into the warrior’s throat, bit deeper, deeper, as a spray of blood arced into the air and the man’s mouth came open in a silent scream, deeper, deeper, the blade singing in her grip, deeper.