{"id":6229,"date":"2026-01-04T13:04:08","date_gmt":"2026-01-04T13:04:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/demon-child-koontz-dean\/"},"modified":"2026-01-04T13:04:08","modified_gmt":"2026-01-04T13:04:08","slug":"demon-child-koontz-dean","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/demon-child-koontz-dean\/","title":{"rendered":"Demon Child – Koontz, Dean"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Book Preview<\/h3>\n
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Dean Koontz (Deanna Dwyer) \u2013 Demon child [Version 2.0 by BuddyDk \u2013 August 2 2003]<\/p>\n

COLD WELCOME<\/p>\n

“What exactly was the curse?” asked Jenny. Her hands were so cold that they looked like white porcelain. ‘ Her aunt spoke slowly. “Sarah pledged that every generation of the Brucker family would contain a child haunted\u2014a child possessed. This child would seek the wolfbane, would howl at the full moon, and find a craving for blood.” “A werewolf? That’s . . . silly.” But she did not feel much like laughing. “That night Sarah’s father died . . . strangely. He grabbed at his own neck, as if struggling against someone . . . or something . . . invisible. He drew his own blood . . . but he died.” Jenny’s eyes strayed to the red volumes of demonic lore. Was this really the answer to Freya’s strange spells? Impossible though it seemed . . . could the child really be a werewolf?<\/p>\n

PUT PLEASURE IN YOUR READING Larger type makes the difference This EASY EYE Edition is set in large, clear type\u2014at least 30 percent larger than usual. It is printed on scientifically tinted non-glare paper for better contrast and less eyestrain.<\/p>\n

Deanna Dwyer<\/p>\n

LANCER BOOKS NEW YORK<\/p>\n

A LANCER BOOK<\/p>\n

DEMON CHILD<\/p>\n

Copvright \u00a9 1971 by Deanna Dwyer All rigjts reserved<\/p>\n

Printed In Canada.<\/p>\n

DEDICATION: To Ann, Oracle, Dan, Leonard, Ely and K. B.<\/p>\n

LANCER BOOKS, INC. \u2022 1560 BROADWAY NEW YORK, N.Y. 10036<\/p>\n

1<\/p>\n

The sky was low and gray as masses of thick clouds scudded southward, pulling cold air down from the north as they went. Jenny huddled against the chill as she entered the quiet graveyard where it seemed ten degrees colder yet. That was her imagination, of course. Still, she hunched her shoulders and walked faster. She stopped before three similar tombstones, one of which had only recently been set before an unsodded grave. In the entire cemetery, she was the only mourner. She was thankful for that, for she preferred to be alone. Turning her eyes to the stones, she read the names cut in them: Lee Brighton, Sandra Brighton and Leona Pitt Brighton. Her father, mother and paternal grandmother. As always, reading the names together, she found it difficult to believe they were all gone and that she was alone without even a brother or sister to share the burdens she carried. She wiped at the tears in her eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw someone. When she turned to look, there was no one there. But when she directed her gaze back to the stones, she saw him again, a large man, gray and indistinct, approaching her. She turned to stare at him. He was gone. The cemetery was empty, but for the fog and the tombstones. Suddenly, she could hear ghostly footsteps on the flagstone walk. Run, Jenny! the voices of her dead loved ones cried. Run, run! Look how suddenly and unexpectedly we died. A drunken driver ran a red light, killing Lee and Sandra in an instant. Grandmother Brighton died in seconds of a stroke. Now you must run or the unexpected, the unknown, will catch you too! She looked all around but still could not see anyone. Softly, the echo of footsteps grew closer. “Who is it?” she asked. The dead voices only answered, Run! The footsteps were almost on top of her now. Any moment, a hand would reach out and touch her, a cold, wet hand. “Who’s there?” she asked again. Its the unknown, the dead told her. You can never anticipate what it will do, when it will take you. All you can do is run, Jenny. Hurry! She turned away from the stones and ran, her heels clicking on the walk. Despite the sounds of her own flight, the heavy panic in her harsh breathing, she could hear the gentle footsteps following her. She ran faster, dashed through the iron gates of the cemetery entrance. To her right, a car horn blared. She looked up in time to see the automobile rushing the last few feet toward her! Behind the windshield, the driver’s face was a mask of terror. She threw up her hand for what little protection that would bring her, and\u2014<\/p>\n

There was a screech of brakes and a loud rattling noise which woke her from her troubled sleep. She looked out of the bus window at the terminal, at the concrete veranda and the old wooden benches. For a moment, she was not able to remember where she was. The nightmare had seemed so real that the real world now seemed like a dream by comparison. Around her, people struggled to their feet, took bags down from the overhead luggage racks and made their way up the aisle toward the door, joking with one another about the incredible heat. Even as she got a better grasp on things, her fear remained. Just as in the dream, she was running, though not from some invisible, faceless force. At least she didn’t think she was running from anything but loneliness. Her nerves quieted somewhat by the time the bus was nearly deserted; she picked up her purse and went outside. The bus driver, seeing she had no one to handle her two large suitcases for her, took them just inside the terminal door. In moments, everyone had been picked up by friends and relatives, leaving the terminal in a sleepy malaise again. Richard Brucker should have been waiting for her. She hoped that nothing was wrong. She waited for him inside the air-conditioned old terminal, by a front window where she could command a complete view of the parking lot. Dark clouds were shoving across the bright sky, as black as onyx, low and rain-filled. Such severe heat and humidity all day could only result in thunderstorms by evening. At least that was the general feeling on the bus where the air-conditioning had malfunctioned and the passengers had grown talkative hi order to make the leaden minutes pass more swiftly. Jagged, yellow lightning cracked down the backdrop of the clouds, followed almost instantly by hard, loud thunder that sounded like nothing so much as cannons, dozens of cannons firing simultaneously. Jenny leaped back from the window, frightened by the violent display. She back-stepped a bit, even though there was no serious threat to her. You are a big girl now, she chided herself. You kept a stiff upper lip when mom and dad died seven years ago. You handled grandma’s funeral all by yourself, settled the old woman’s estate without much help. You’ve worked your way through college, and you’re twenty-one years old. Now stop being frightened by a little old flash of lightning! Where on earth was her cousin? Richard Brucker was fifteen minutes late already. She wondered if he might have had an accident, for she thought of the rain-slicked pavement on which her mother and father had died. She felt guilty for even nourishing the start of impatience. Just then, the storm broke over the terminal. Lightning struck down, seemed to smash into the surface of the parking lot, as if attracted by the aerials of the cars parked there. Impulsively, Jenny turned away from the glass. Rain hissed across the concrete veranda, driven by stiff gusts of wind. It darkened the veranda floor, spattered on the windows. It sounded like someone whispering a warning to her, over and over. She left her two suitcases where the driver had put them, crossed the terminal building to the far wall where a waitress wiped the top of a small lunch counter. She took a stool and ordered a cup of coffee. “Looks like it finally broke,” the waitress said. “Do you think it’ll last all day?” “Supposed to go on all night too!” The waitress put the coffee down. “Want a doughnut with that?” “No thank you.” “Moving in or visiting?” the waitress asked. She did not seem to be a busybody, just friendly. “Visiting,” Jenny said. “I graduated from college last week. I used to live with my grandmother, but she passed on two months ago. I have an aunt here who wants to have me until my first teaching job starts in the fall.” “A teacher!” the waitress said. “I never was any good with books myself. That’s why I’m just a waitress. Right now, though, I wish I was home in bed with a book. This place gets spooky when there ain’t many people about.” Jenny looked at the open-beam ceiling, dark and mysterious, at the dim corners where old, hooded lights didn’t cast much cheer. “I sure wouldn’t want to work here!” She sipped her coffee. “But I guess you meet a good many different types of people.” The waitress nodded. “Some you’d like to know, others you’d give anything never to see again.” She looked over Jenny’s shoulder toward the front doors. “And here comes one I could do without. He’s from that house where poor little Freya lives. If there’s a curse, then he’s the cause of it.” Her voice fell as the man drew nearer the counter. “Half the child’s troubles, if you ask me, stem from this one. No good at all; too quiet and too dark and too unwilling to talk with anyone.” Jenny looked at the man who, a moment later, stepped up to the counter. He was tall and slim, with very large hands that moved rapidly. They pressed at his lapels, searched his pockets, flicked at dirt on the countertop. He was a handsome man, scholarly in appearance except for his black, curly hair which he wore full and rather long. It was this last detail which kept her from recognizing him immediately. When he smiled at her, she saw that it was Richard. “Hello, Jenny,” he said. She got up and hugged him. He had been four years her senior when her parents died, and, in the midst of sympathetic adults, he had been the only one to whom she could communicate her grief. His own mother had died when Richard was two years old. And though he had been too young to remember it, he had learned the loneliness of the world in the years after. When she had needed consolation, it was Richard who, clumsily but earnestly, had given it to her. The waitress moved off, disapproving, scowling at them when she thought they could not see. “We can talk more in the car,” Richard said, hefting her suitcases. “After that, we have the whole summer.” At the front door, she said, “You’ll get drenched!” “Don’t worry about me. Pull your coat over your head and run for it. I left both doors slightly ajar, so you can get in quickly. It’s the maroon Corvette there. Ready?” Lightning snapped across the low clouds, making the darkening afternoon momentarily brighter. Jenny jumped as the clap of thunder rattled the windows. “Lightning always strikes the highest object in the area,” Richard said, sensing her fright. “I’m a good foot taller than you.” “Don’t say that!” she snapped, gripping his arm. He had meant it as a joke, was surprised she took him so earnestly. “The car’s only a dozen yards away. No trouble. Now?” “Now,” she said, resigned to it. He shouldered open the door, lead her onto the veranda. Richard ran into the downpour. A moment later, her coat pulled over her head, slightly hunched to make herself a smaller target, she ran too. The pavement lighted with a reflection of a wide, jagged run of lightning. She almost slipped and fell on the slick macadam, regained her balance only by the sheerest luck. She found the passenger’s door, opened it and slid into the small, low-slung sportscar. Again, yellow light shattered the even black glaze of the sky, but she felt safe from it now. She had heard that the four tires of an automobile grounded it in a storm. She was careful, though, not to touch any of the metal fixtures. She still remembered the nightmare she had had on the bus. That was an omen of some kind. Richard was soaked by the time he had the luggage in the compartment behind the seat and had slipped behind the wheel. “I feel awful, putting you through this,” Jenny said. She took a clean handkerchief out of her purse and wiped his face and neck. “Why?” he asked, grinning broadly. “Were you the one who made it rain?” She made a face at him. “Here,” she said, “let me dry your hair,” When he bent toward her, she toweled it until her handkerchief was sopping. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m as healthy as a horse\u2014 as two horses!” He started the car, raced the engine once or twice, then drove away. “The waitress didn’t think much of you,” Jenny said to start a conversation beyond mere pleasantries. besides, she was curious to know why the waitress seemed to fear a gentle man like Richard Brucker. “Catherine? Really? I’ve noticed that she treats me cooly these days, though I haven’t bothered to find out why.” He drove off the main highway onto a secondary, less well-paved road where Dutch elms grew on both sides and formed a canopy above them, making the way even darker. “What’d she say?” “That you were responsible for some curse over a girl named Freya.” Richard smiled, leaned forward and turned on the headlights. If lightning still cracked above, it did not penetrate these lush branches. “You haven’t been involved in some public scandal, have you?” she asked, teasing him. “Not woman troubles,” he said. “In this town, anything can make a scandal. Rural life is charming, except for its lack of privacy. In small towns, everyone’s business becomes public. Freya is my cousin, from my father’s side of the family. She’s seven years old, has a twin brother, Frank, and she’s presently having what I call psychiatric problems. Cora calls it a family curse.” Jenny had been surprised the first time she had heard Richard refer to his mother by her Christian name, even though she understood it was a custom among some of the very wealthy. Still, it seemed to lack respect. “A curse?” “Psychiatric problems,” he corrected. He sighed as if weary with the story. “The twins came from a broken home. Lena Brucker, my father’s sister, married a good-for-nothing who eventually ran off with half her money. She drinks too much, likes the jet-set life too well. When Cora found that Lena planned on boarding the two seven-year-olds in separate schools, she asked Lena to leave them here. Lena didn’t care one way or the other, as long as she had her freedom. That was a year ago; they’ve been with us since.” “Aunt Cora didn’t say you had guests!” Jenny said. “I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” Richard laughed. “Jenny, sweets, the Brucker estate mansion has eighteen bedrooms.” “Eighteen!” “Our ancestors were fond of parties that lasted whole weekends, especially around Thanksgiving and Christmas. People came from all over. These days, we’re all too hurried to have such a leisurely celebration.” “You still haven’t told me about the curse,” she reminded him. “Excuse me\u2014about the psychiatric problems.” Ahead of them, a great road construction truck, smeared with mud, jounced into view around a curve in the road. It was traveling at better than sixty miles an hour. Richard had barely enough time to climb part of the steep bank alongside the road as the mammoth vehicle roared by, rattling and banging as each ripple in the macadam carried the length of it. “What a fool way to drive!” Jenny said. She was remembering the nightmare, all the nightmares she had had since Grandmother Brighton had died. If Richard’s reflexes had been just a hair less sharp, or if the truck had been moving the slightest bit faster, they both might be badly hurt or dead. Richard grumbled. “Foolish, but average for that lot.” “They use this road frequently?” He backed off the embankment and drove ahead once more. “Ever since the superhighway construction began, fairly near the edge of Brucker property.” “All that dirt and noise,” Jenny said. Then she remembered that Aunt Cora would surely have a maid. “It’s not so bad,” Richard said. “The house sits well into the estate, away from the construction. It’s the real-estate speculators and their constant offers for our land that drive us crazy.” They turned onto a narrower, better paved road, stopped before an iron gate that said: BRUCKER ESTATE. PRIVATE, KEEP OUT. Richard tapped the car’s horn in a rhythm Jenny didn’t catch. The gates swung open, let them by, closed behind them. She would have been delighted with such gadgetry if the iron gates had not reminded her of iron cemetery gates. They passed neatly kept stables and riding rings fenced with white-washed boards. A small lake lay to the right, a coppice of pine trees by its far shore. Under the trees were picnic tables and children’s swings. In the rain and fog, the swings looked like the skeletons of long-dead creatures. “The house,” Richard said as they rounded a small knoll. The house had three floors plus a half attic whose windows were set in a black slate roof. Two wings formed an L with a courtyard and fountain in the nook of the arms. The stone cherubs in the fountain were not spouting any water at the moment. Richard parked before the front steps, a leisurely flight of eight, wide marble risers that ended on a granite stoop before tall, oaken main doors. Almost before the sound of the engine died, a rather elderly man in a raincoat came out of those doors. He was shielded by a black umbrella and was carrying a second umbrella which he gave Richard. He rushed around to Jenny’s door, opened it and helped her under the protection of his own bumbershoot. He was about sixty, lean and wizened with white hair and deep, blue eyes. “I’m Harold, the manservant. You must be Jenny, for you have the Brighton beauty, dark hair and eyes. Will you come with me out of this dreadful weather?” “Yes!” she gasped as thunder rumbled in the ever-lowering clouds and the rain seemed to fall twice as fast as it had. Her feet were soaked, and her legs were splattered with mud and water. As they stepped onto the first of the marble stairs, someone moaned nearby, loud and prolonged, as if in some terrible sort of agony. It was not exactly the cry of a human being. It was too deep and too loud for that, touched with something that spoke of the supernatural. “What is that?” she asked. Abruptly, the moan rose to a shrill, wild shriek that cut off without reason in the middle of a note. Jenny shivered. She could see no one about who could have made the weird call. “Just the wind,” Harold told her. He pointed past the edge of the umbrella at the eaves of the mansion. “If the wind comes too fast from the south, it whistles in the eaves. It can keep you awake nights. Fortunately, the wind hardly ever blows this way.” The explanation should have quieted her nerves, but it did not. That cry seemed too filled with emotion to be made by something inanimate. Suddenly, she remembered things that she should have asked Richard. Why had he been late? Why did Catherine, the waitress, fear him so? What was this curse that Aunt Cora talked about and which he called a “psychiatric problem”? Lightning threw the front of the house into strange shadows; thunder shook the many windows. Again, the wind moaned horribly in the eaves. That uncontrollable fear of the unknown and the unexpected rose in Jenny. She thought of her mother and father, of Grandmother Brighton. She wished, oh so very much, that she had found something else to occupy her summer. But she realized there was no backing out now. She went with Harold into that bleak and foreboding house . . .<\/p>\n

2<\/p>\n

If the exterior of the house had been foreboding, the interior made up for that. It was warm and comfortable with an air of well-being that could very nearly be touched. The walls of the entry foyer were richly papered in a gold and white antique print. The closet doors were heavy, dark oak. The few pieces of furniture were all heavy pine styled in a rustic, colonial mode that bespoke usefulness and sensibility. In such a house, one could feel protected, shielded, away from the cares of the rest of the world. The moan of the wind in the eaves was distant and unfrightening. Yet, even as she gave less thought to the fears that had bothered her only moments ago, Jenny wondered if this were not a false sense of security that prevailed in the house. At times, you had to be careful, cautious. Just when you turned your back on some danger, smug in your certainty of safety, it might spring up anew and attack you when you least expected it. A car on a rain-slicked highway . . . A burst blood vessel in an old woman’s brain . . . She shivered. “Cold?” Harold asked as he took her coat and hung it in the closet. “A little.” “A touch of brandy should clear that up,” he said. “Would you like a drop or two in your coffee?” Under normal circumstances, Jenny did not approve of liquor. She felt that it was a crutch against the burdens of the world. But at this moment, she could see little harm in giving in to Harold’s suggestion. She really was quite cold and nervous. She nodded her consent. “Good,” Harold said, slipping his own coat into the closet. “Your aunt should be in the drawing room. Straight down this corridor, on your left through the curtained arch. If you will excuse me, I’ll take the back hall to the kitchen and get the coffee ready. You look positively chilled to the bone!” He left her standing there, alone in the house for the first time. Abruptly, the front door opened behind her, admitting the throbbing moan of the wind in the eaves and the hiss of rain drumming the driveway. Richard fought inside with the umbrella and the suitcase, set the bag down. “One more,” he said. “I should have helped you with those!” “I’ve got my bumbershoot,” he said. “And it isn’t doing you a bit of good.” “You hurry along to Cora. She’ll be waiting for vou” He plunged back into the downpour. The rain slashed under the rim of his umbrella and soaked his clothes. She supposed there was nothing she could do for him. She turned and followed the corridor, fascinated by the rich oil paintings hung against the polished mahogany paneling. The frames alone were more expensive than the framed lithographs she had been used to in her own home as a child. Cora’s family had warned her against the marriage. They had been as opposed to her marrying to a higher station in life as many families might have been against a girl marrying beneath herself. The Brightons had a fierce pride and a stubborn insistence that a Brighton should earn his way and not marry or inherit wealth. Fortunately, Aunt Cora had followed the dictates of her own heart and had ignored them all. The marriage had been happy. Alex and Cora Brucker behaved like newlyweds throughout the years, right up until his death two years before. Money was never a problem. Neither was his business, for he had inherited it when it was running smoothly and needed to spend only one or two days a week attending to the larger details. Richard presented no source of conflict for his step-mother. Though not of Cora’s blood, he was always polite to her, obedient, free with his love. He remained their only child, and the years passed un-marred. Engaged in such thoughts, she came to the archway into the drawing room before she realized it. Aunt Cora was placing a silver tray of sandwiches and chips upon a low cocktail table, engrossed in making the decorative garnish as well-placed as possible. Behind her, on a deep green sofa, two blonde-haired and blue-eyed children sat. Though one was a boy and one a girl, they were quite obviously twins. They saw her in the doorway and stared at her. They did not smile or speak, but watched her cautiously. Like shy children, she told herself. Yet she couldn’t stop wondering if their silence and their inspection of her were more than that. But what? Neither Freya nor Frank looked like a child who was supposedly under the sinister influence of some mysterious family curse\u2014nor like a child with deep psychological problems. They were healthy, tending toward chubbiness, with eyes that were quick and alert and almost too blue to be real. She smiled at them to show her own desire to make friends. Neither child returned her smile. In that instant, Cora caught sight of her and stood abruptly erect, startled. She was a lovely woman who looked a decade younger than her fifty-one years. Her dark hair was tinted with gray that she chose not to conceal with some artificial rinse. There were no wrinkles in her face, no weariness of age in her eyes. She took three quick steps from the table and embraced her niece. For the first time in months, Jenny felt as if she were safe. Here were arms to encircle her and someone to love and be loved by. Since Grandmother Brighton’s death, the world had seemed more and more inhospitable as time went by. She had the silly, impossible wish never to have to leave the Brucker Estate again. Richard joined them when he had changed to dry clothes, and they had a delightful mid-afternoon tea with cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches, wedges of cheese, crackers and potato chips. Frank and Freya, the twins, seemed to come out of their cocoons somewhat, offered a few words of response to questions she asked them. They even smiled once or twice. She decided that their original coolness was more the result of their training in manners and behavior than it was any conscious effort to make her feel ill at ease. At last, shortly after four o’clock, Cora said, “But we’re being very rude to you, dear. You’ve had a long bus ride. You’ll want a bath and a few hours of rest before supper. Harold serves us at seven-thirty in the small family room just a few steps further down the corridor.” She turned to Richard. “Have you put her bags upstairs?” “In the blue room, Cora,” he said, finishing his tea. “Come along then, Jenny,” Cora said. “I’ll show you where you’ll be spending these summer nights.” As they walked up the long, central staircase from the entrance foyer, Jenny began to notice, for the first time, the barely checked case of bad nerves in her aunt. Cora played with her long, dark hair as she walked, winding strands of it in her fingers, releasing those strands, winding others. She spoke too quickly, with a nervous, forced gaiety that could no longer be attributed to her seeing her niece for the first time since Grandmother Brighton’s funeral. Too, for the first time since she had entered the house, Jenny was aware of the storm again. It banged on the slate roof. It pattered rain against the windows. Flickers of lightning played through the glass and danced on the dark steps for brief, unpleasant moments. “We’ll do some riding this summer,” Cora said as they topped the stairs and left them for the second floor corridor. “Do you like horses?” “I’ve ridden them once or twice,” Jenny said. “But you’ll make me look like a city slicker in the saddle.” “Richard is marvelous with horses,” Cora said. “He can teach you what you don’t know. He handles the family business, but it leaves him a great deal of spare time.” At the end of the corridor, Cora opened a heavy, dark-stained pecan door which had been hand-carved with the forms of dragons and elves. It might once have been destined to be a child’s room. It was large, airy, with two windows curtained with umber velvet. The bed was large, spread over with a white satin quilt. There were two dressers, a full-length mirror, a night-stand and two bookcases half filled with various kinds of books, from classic to modern fiction. Her bags waited on a bellboy stand, their tops open, their contents on display. Perhaps it had only been polite of Richard to open the cases so that they could air while waiting for her attention. Just the same, she did not like the idea of his taking such a liberty. Cora did not seem to notice. Am I being too stuffy? Jenny wondered. Why am I acting as if I have something to fear from my own loved ones? She vowed, to herself, to try to be a little less suspicious of people who only wished to help her. “You have a private bath there, through that door,” Cora said. She was winding a coil of dark hair around her index finger, smiling but not smiling. “It’s all so wonderful!” Jenny said, meaning it. She was unaccustomed to such luxury. Cora stopped fiddling with her hair and took both of Jenny’s hands. The woman’s grasp was dry and warm. “I’m so very happy that you came here, Jenny,” she said. “So am I, Aunt Cora.” “No, no, you don’t understand,” Cora said, her voice very earnest now. She lead the young girl to the bed, and they both sat on the edge of the thick mattress, not letting go of each other’s hands. “I’m not just making pleasant conversation,” Cora said. “I really am glad you came. Richard and Harold and Anna, that’s Harold’s wife, are good company. I do a lot of charity work in town. I take vacations. But Alex has only been dead two years. There is still a lot of tune to fill in a day.” She stopped speaking, stared for a moment, as if looking beyond the veil of this reality into the spirit world where she might find some way to touch her dead husband. Jenny waited. At last, she said, “You really loved him, didn’t you?” Cora seemed reluctant to leave her trance, but she said, “Yes. I know the family was always doubtful about the marriage. But it was perfect.” She came fully alive then. “I hope you are as lucky one day, Jenny. I hope you meet someone like Alex.” She squeezed her niece’s hands, let go of them. “But let’s not get maudlin, huh?” Jenny laughed. “I was prepared for anything. A waitress at the bus terminal warned me about the curse.” Cora stopped smiling altogether. Jenny fancied that the woman’s face abruptly became an ashen gray, though such a rapid change in color could only be imaginary. “You’ve heard, then. You know it all.” Jenny felt cold again. The effect of the brandy had worn off. “Not all, Aunt Cora. Just bits and pieces. Richard was starting to explain the situation to me on the way up, but he didn’t get to finish it.” Cora rose from the bed and walked to the south window of the room, watched the rain sheeting across the green lawn, misting among the trees like tangled webs of hair. Her fingers played on the glass, drawing senseless patterns and leaving trails of quickly evaporating dampness. For a brief moment, it was as if she were a prisoner in her own home, longing for the freedom of the world beyond. She turned back to Jenny. “Whatever Richard told you, it was colored by his optimism.” “It was?” Cora nodded. “He told you the problem was a psychiatric one, didn’t he? He told you that Freya needed psychiatric care?” Jenny nodded. “And he said you disagree with him. You think it’s some family curse.” “I don’t think so. I know that it is.” Jenny said nothing. She could remember the dream on the bus, and she could hear voices, deep inside her, telling her to run, to escape that rambling, dark house for the lights of town. A particularly vicious clap of thunder slammed against the house as if the mansion could be lifted from its foundation by the sheer volume of the storm. Cora was silhouetted by the lightning, a yellow halo bursting from her hair, her face momentarily lost in the contrasting purple shadows. In her long, green lounging robe, standing there with the dominant blue color scheme of the room about her, she reminded Jenny of some dead-but-risen heroine in an Edgar Allan Poe story. Then the lightning was gone, the booming thunder muted and the eerie effect lost. Aunt Cora was merely Aunt Cora and nothing more. “I read a great deal,” Cora said. She seemed to be talking to herself as much as to Jenny. “There were many books in the mansion when I came, and I devoured them, reading what classics I had never before had time for when I was a single, working girl. I read the non-fiction as well. Somewhere in the previous generations of Bruckers who lived in this house, someone had more than a passing interest in witchcraft and demonology. There are many books on the subject, distributed on shelves throughout the house. Surely there are a few of them right there, in your own bookcase.” Jenny turned to look at the shelves. Two blood-red bindings stood out. Embossed on each spine was the title of the two-volume set: BLACK MAGIC IN AMERICA. “In my readings, I came across two volumes published locally in the middle of the last century. Publishing was a much different proposition then, and the economic situation made it feasible for regional publishers to sell and prosper on titles of little interest to anyone beyond a few hundred miles from their home plant. Both these volumes had been published hi Philadelphia. One was entitled Warlocks and Witches of Pennsylvania; the other was Cursed Be the Wealthy” She paused, and Jenny did not feel that it was her duty to urge the older woman on. Rain on the windows, thunder on the roof, lightning against the glass all filled the silent moments until Cora continued her story. “According to those books, Sarah Maryanna Brucker, Alex’s great-great-great-aunt, left home in 1849, at the age of seventeen, to travel with a band of gypsies who earned their living performing in a circus of moderate size. Her family did everything they could to trace her, to no avail. She was lost to them. Until 1860, eleven years later, when she returned home with a child. She wished to be taken back into the family, to give her baby the Brucker name. It was a swarthy, dark-eyed, sharp-featured child of four, obviously part European in its heritage. Sarah’s mother had died in her absence. Her father, embittered by his daughter’s foolishness eleven years before, blaming his wife’s death on a broken heart caused by the daughter, refused to allow her in the house.” Thunder. Rain. The blood-red bindings of the books on the shelf directly across from the foot of the bed. The creak of floorboards. Cora continued: “That night, Sarah Brucker returned to the mansion, this house, and built a fire on the grounds. At that time, there were a few tenant-farming Negroes living in lesser houses among the trees. When Sarah began chanting gypsy phrases into the fire, her eyes never leaving the house, her father ordered the blacks to remove her. None of them dared. At last, as she finished her curse in English, her father could no longer tolerate the display. He physically removed her from his property, along with the frightened child that was his grandson.” “He sounds like a cruel man,” Jenny said. “She made a mistake, of course. But she was still his daughter.” “The books say that he was eccentric and that neighbors considered him perhaps a little mad. He had always been a cold, aloof man. When his daughter ran away and his wife died shortly after, he became even colder, harsher, more withdrawn. His servants ran all his messages and did all his errands. He rarely left the house. When Sarah returned, toting a child born of a gypsy father, it was the ultimate disgrace, the ultimate tragedy, the straw that broke his back. He seems the sort of man who never learned much forgiveness, and he was not about to change his personality at that point.” “And what exactly was the curse?” Jenny asked. She felt as if she wanted to get in the bed she sat on, pull the covers over her head and make herself a warm nest. Her hands were so cold that they looked like white porcelain. “Sarah pledged that every generation of the Brucker family would contain a child haunted, a child possessed, a demon child as she called it. This child would seek the wolfbane, would howl at the full moon and find a craving for blood.” “A werewolf? Why, that’s silly!” But she did not feel much like laughing at her aunt. “That night, after Sarah was permanently dispatched from Brucker land, her father died.” The air in the blue room seemed terribly stuffy. Jenny wanted to open one of the windows. But she knew that would only let the rain and the thunder in, and they were worse than stale air. “How\u2014how did he die?” Jenny asked. “In those days, medicine was not as good as now. It is simply recorded that he could not get his breath. That he fell to the floor, gasping as if he could not fill his lungs. He grabbed at his own neck, as if seeking invisible hands that were slowly strangling him, and he clawed his own flesh until he drew blood. But none of it helped him. His face mottled. His eyes bulged. And then he died.” Voices drifted up from downstairs. It was the sound of the twins engaged in some game or other. They were laughing brightly. “It could have been a heart attack,” Jenny said, “or a stroke.” She remembered Grandmother Brighton. “Perhaps.” “But you don’t think so?” “The doctor who examined the corpse described the dead man’s neck by saying that it looked as if he had been attacked by some animal, though none of the wounds were deep enough to cause death.” “He clawed himself, you said.” “Perhaps he did.” Jenny respected her aunt, loved the woman. Yet she worried for Cora’s sanity now. This was so little to build a genuine fear upon. Wasn’t it? “In the past months,” Cora went on, “Freya has suffered from fainting spells. Almost always at night. Her sleep is so deep that she can’t be shaken awake, like a coma or trance. We’ve had Dr. Malmont in attendance quite often. He had been treating her, previously, for a vitamin deficiency. Now he believes, like Richard, that the comas are not connected to that, but to something else, some psychological cause. “And they must be right,” Jenny said. Cora seemed not to have heard her. “But when Freya sleeps like that, the wolf howls.” Jenny’s eyes strayed to the red volumes of demonic lore. She quickly shifted her eyes back to Cora. The older woman was plainly distraught now, her face paler than before, her cheeks shrunken. “Richard didn’t say anything about a wolf.” “He’s heard it too. Nearby, sometimes distant. Every time when Freya is in a coma.” “You’ve seen it?” Cora shook her head negatively. “Even when it sounds quite close, it stays behind the screen of trees to the west, or over the hills on the north of the house. Sometimes, it bowls for half an hour or more, as if it is in some pain or possessed of great sadness. Other times, there is an ugly, murderous sound to it.” “It could be coincidence.” “That’s what Richard says.” “There! You see!” Cora was still shaking her head back and forth. “But there is a point where coincidence becomes farcical. Coincidence can’t explain the rabbits and the blood.” “You’re losing me,” Jenny said, smiling, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the gloomy conversation. “In the last few weeks, we’ve found evidence of a wolf on the grounds. We find mangled rabbits by the stables. We found one on our front stoop, in fact. And twice, in the morning after one of Freya’s comas, we’ve found blood smeared on one of the downstairs windows, as if the wolf had stood there at the glass, its bloodied jowls foaming, wondering if it should try to break in.” The way Cora said all this, her demeanor in its presentation, left no room for doubt. The events she had described were ones that had transpired. Whether their meaning was the one she ascribed to them, or whether there was some more natural explanation, Jenny could not guess. Ordinarily, she would have pooh-poohed any suggestion of the supernatural, of demons and curses and souls departing bodies to take the form of wolves. But these days, she had come to respect the unexpected, the unknown, to hold off disbelief and be prepared for any eventuality. Cora seemed to shake off the mood that had possessed her. She smiled, raised a hand to play with her dark hair again. “I’m sorry if I upset you. I invited you here before the worst of these things started, before we found the rabbits and the blood. I want you to have a good summer. You’re teaching position will require a fresh young lady with a summer of sun and riding behind her.” “I’m sure there’s some explanation behind all this,” Jenny said. “Neither Freya or Frank act like possessed children.” “They are wonderful, aren’t they?” Cora asked. She laughed. “Maybe Richard is right. Maybe I am acting like a fool. I’ll have to give it some more thought.” She hugged Jenny. “you try to rest now. There are fresh towels for your shower. The television and the radio work. There’s a good FM station already set on the dial. We’ll see you at seven-thirty.” She left, closing the door softly behind her. Jenny went to the south window and untied the golden cords which held the umber drapes away from the glass. The heavy velvet panels fell into place, shutting out the cold, wet fury of the storm. She did the same at the other window, put the cords on top of her dresser. The room was almost dark now. She found the light switch, turned the lamps on. She inspected the room more closely, determined to squeeze the story of the curse from her mind and to enjoy her first day in the Brucker mansion. Just when she had become engrossed in a study of the novel titles on the bookshelves, carefully avoiding the crimson volumes, her attention was brought abruptly back to the dark air that hung about the household. Outside, the wind shrieked in the eaves directly above her window, gibbered and howled, moaned and hissed like something trying to get in to her . . .<\/p>\n

3<\/p>\n

The atmosphere had not improved by dinnertime. Jenny was the last to enter the family dining room, but she could sense the tension in the air and the fact that Richard and Cora had recently had words about something. Neither of them looked at each other, and both seemed relieved to have Jenny join them, as if her presence would keep either of them from taking up a subject that could only cause argument. There were only three place settings. Richard and his mother sat at opposite ends of the small table, and Jenny took the place between them. “Aren’t the twins eating with us?” she asked. “They always have their meal at five-thirty. They have an eight-o’clock bedtime until they reach their eighth birthday. Then they can stay up until nine. If they earn the increase. I don’t believe in letting children have privileges they don’t earn.” The door between the dining room and the main kitchen swung outward, and a short, somewhat heavy but pleasantly attractive woman forced her way through, carrying a serving dish full of whipped potatoes. “I’m ready for you, Richie,” she said. Richard smiled, obviously delighted with the newcomer, and rose from his place, disappearing through the swinging door. “Jenny,” Cora said, also smiling, “this is Anna, Harold’s wife. She cooks like a dream, even though she is rather bossy.” “How do you do,” Jenny said. “I’m fine. I’m always fine,” Anna said. “It’s everybody else around here who’s hard to get along with!” Richard returned from the kitchen carrying a tray with four serving bowls on it. There was coleslaw, green beans sprinkled over with slivers of almonds, creamed corn and peas with onions in butter sauce. He put the tray on the table, to Anna’s left, and went back to the kitchen while the maid quickly distributed the individual dishes along the center of the table. “Everything looks delicious,” Jenny said. “You’ll find that it tastes every bit as good as it looks,” Anna said. Richard had just returned with a ham set on a field of parsley. “That’s our Anna,” he said, chuckling. “She’s so modest that you can rarely get a word out of her.” “Just don’t make any smart remarks about the food,” Anna said. “Or you’ll be eating elsewhere. Did you get everything?” “Yes, Anna,” Richard said. She surveyed the table. “You forgot the rolls.” She hurried into the kitchen, came back with the rolls, plunked them down next to Jenny. “If I don’t serve correctly,” she told Jenny, “it’s because that’s usually Harry’s job. But nobody cooks better.” With that, she was gone. “She’s great, isn’t she?” Richard asked. “She sounds wonderful,” Jenny agreed. Anna’s bragging was not the outgrowth of some enlarged ego. She could cook well, and she knew it. Her bragging was based on accomplishment and a pride in tasks well done. “She won’t let me in the kitchen,” Cora said. “But I’d look foolish trying to compete with her anyway.” “I hope Harold isn’t ill,” Jenny said. She remembered how he had brought the umbrella to her in the storm this afternoon. A man his age should not be about in such miserable weather. “No, no,” Cora said. “He’s fine.” Richard watched his mother as he dished green beans onto his plate. When she was obviously not about to say anything more, he passed the serving bowl to Jenny and said, “Freya has had one of her attacks. Harold is upstairs sitting by her bedside. It’s a precaution we try to take most times it happens. One or two nights a week, one of us loses a night’s sleep.” Jenny said nothing. She knew, now, what the argument must have been about just before she came into the room. Richard had been trying to persuade Cora to let him take Freya to a psychiatrist, and Cora had been sticking to her guns, as before. Aside from a few comments about the marvelous quality of the food, no one said much for the first fifteen minutes of the meal. Silverware clanked. Ice cubes rattled in glasses. They made chewing sounds. Gentle background music came from hidden speakers. Nothing else. Then Richard spoke, as if there had not been a break in his argument with Cora, as if twenty minutes had not passed since Jenny had entered the room. His eyebrows were drawn close together, his brow wrinkled. “At least,” he said to Cora, “let me take her into the city for a few days of tests.” Cora put her fork down, dismayed that the scene should be picked up again just when she thought the curtain had been rung down for the night. “I have already said no, Richard.” “But why? If there’s something physically wrong with Freya, we must\u2014” “There isn’t anything physically wrong,” Cora said. “How can you be sure?” “Dr. Malmont assures us.” “He’s only one doctor.” Cora sighed. “Richard, don’t try to make me look like a villain in front of Jenny. You know perfectly well that we had Freya in the hospital for an entire week a month ago. They ran every test on her imaginable. She is in perfect health. There aren’t even any allergies, obvious ones at least, to account for these things.” For a brief moment, he looked mollified. Then he said, “I should still take her to another doctor.” “You mean a psychiatrist,” Cora said. “Why not?” “Because, I know how frightened Freya was in the hospital. The child cried when she came home and asked me not to send her back there again. I do not want her, in her present state, to have to face the ordeal of another session with a doctor.” “All children are frightened of doctors,” Richard said. “But that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be taken for their vaccinations just the same.” His tone of voice had gotten progressively less respectful until it was now little more than a grumble of anger. Jenny continued to eat, trying to remain out of this. She did not approve, in the least, of the way Richard was speaking to his mother. “Love and understanding will help Freya,” Cora said. “Good food and a good home. It’s the life she remembers with her mother that still bothers her. You know how bad she had it with Lena.” “Love?” Richard asked. “Is that what it tells you in your books? Will love dissipate the age-old Brucker family curse, Cora?” “That’s quite enough,” Cora said. “I’m speaking for Freya’s good,” Richard insisted, dropping his spoon and leaning over his plate, staring intently over the serving dishes. His dark eyebrows met above his nose. “And you’re insinuating that I am not speaking for her best interests. Is that it?” Jenny had never seen Cora angry before. She could tell that the woman was prepared to lash out, cuttingly, if this exchange should continue for much longer. Richard sank back in his chair. “No, Cora,” he said. “I realize you’re as worried about Freya as I am. But don’t you see\u2014 Don’t you see that the best way is professional help?” “What I see,” Cora said, “is that we have embarrassed our guest and made her first regular meal with us\u2014well, awkward.” “That’s all right,” Jenny said, cutting a piece of ham. The food was really quite good, though she had lost most of her appetite. She just wanted to rise and ask to be excused. Maybe she could lose herself in a good book tonight. Except that, by not eating she would embarrass both Richard and Cora\u2014and infuriate dear Anna who was so proud of her culinary art. Richard cleared the table while Anna brought dessert and coffee. She had made a special surprise to conclude the meal, an ice cream cake with four different flavors in eight different layers. It must have taken most all afternoon for this dish alone. She was a woman who loved her work. And her love produced, especially in this instance, a dish that was wildly delicious, even though the argument and the constant gloomy expectancy that hung over the mansion had dulled Jenny’s appetite. “Well?” Anna asked once the dessert had been taken and the extra cups of coffee had been poured. She clasped her hands before her and smiled, vulnerable to a rejection but fairly certain that she would receive praise. “It was marvelous, Anna,” Jenny said. She did not have to stretch the truth to give the woman the reply she wanted. “I don’t think I’ll be able to move from this chair for a week!” That pleased Anna. A murmured agreement from Cora and Richard finished her reward. She went back into the kitchen, smiling broadly and humming some vaguely familiar tune to herself. Jenny exchanged amused glances with Cora and Richard. Anna was some cook, and some character! “What do you think of the Brucker mansion?” Richard asked. He was watching her over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee. Unexplainably, she remembered that he had opened her suitcases upon placing them in her room. She had still not been able to decide whether or not he had been snooping, whether such a gesture was only meant as a final courtesy. But this very direct gaze of his seemed to pry at her own eyes, to peel back her brain and seek for secrets. She didn’t like that at all. “My room is wonderful,” she said. “I’m anxious to explore the grounds and do some riding. I can’t thank both of you enough. This is just what I need to prepare me for teaching this fall.” She thought he looked surprised at her answer, as if he had expected some other reaction. As if, perhaps, he had been hoping that she would say that she did not like it here and that she wanted to leave Or that might be her overworked suspicion again. Why would he want her out of the house? He had always treated her well, hadn’t he? She remembered, suddenly, that he had been half an hour late picking her up at the bus terminal. Before she could enquire about that, however, they were interrupted by the soft yet penetrating chimes of the front doorbell. “That will be Dr. Malmont,” Richard said, laying his napkin on the table and rising from his chair. “I’ll show him here. Perhaps he’d like some coffee on a night like this.” When Richard had left the room, Cora smiled at Jenny and spoke conspiratorially. “You’ll have to forgive Richard his temper. He is very concerned for Freya, as we all are. But there are no more medical tests to be administered. I won’t send that frightened dear to another hospital\u2014nor to a psychiatric clinic. I’m going to try my darndest to make love turn the trick with her. She got no love from her mother. I’m trying to make up for that. If I can’t, maybe I’ll finally let her see Richard’s psychiatrist. But before I do\u2014” They were interrupted by Dr. Malmont who was mopping rain from his large, florid face. Richard came close behind him. “The doctor almost drowned,” Richard said, laughing. “And I intend to go home straightaway after seeing Freya\u2014and there I’m going to begin construction of an ark!” He was so jolly in appearance, heavy, with pleasant jowls, quick and pudgy hands, too much belly and too much hip, that whatever amusing thing he said seemed twice as funny as it truly was. He was no more than forty-five, with just a touch of gray at his temples. Though a heavy man, he was dressed neatly and well in clothes tailored for his bulk. “If it’s an ark that’s needed,” Cora said, “you’ve got thirty-nine more days to build it. Surely you have time for a cup of coffee.” “Let me see Freya first,” he said. “Then we can talk. You have been keeping up with her vitamins?” “Yes,” Cora said. “She had her tablet with her meal tonight. Just as usual.” “I’ll be down shortly,” Malmont said. “No, Richard, I don’t need a guide. Just have coffee ready. And if Anna has extra dessert, I’ll take some, no matter what it might be!” With that he exited the dining room. He moved with quiet grace unusual in a man his size. He returned in less than ten minutes, took a seat across the table from Jenny where a plate had been placed. “Is this the niece? It must be,” he said without waiting for answer. “She has the same fairness as her aunt. The Brightens must all be lovely people.” “Thank you,” Jenny said. Then Anna entered with an extra dessert and coffee. The doctor’s attention was directed at these until they were all but gone, the beauty of Cora’s niece utterly forgotten. “How was she?” Richard asked when Malmont was finished. The doctor daubed at his lips with a napkin, rinsed the sweetness of dessert from his mouth with a swig of black coffee. “The same as the other times. I couldn’t stir her. Breathing well, all life systems in good condition. I am more certain than ever that it has nothing to do with the vitamin deficiency. They are two separate problems.” “Do you think she needs to go to the hospital again?” Cora asked. “Good Lord, no!” Malmont said. “That child is fragile, Cora. She isn’t a tough number like her brother. They didn’t find anything at the hospital before. They won’t find anything again. As long as her condition remains stable, with one or two of these spells a week, I think we should be satisfied that the original diagnosis was correct: she is physically well.” “What about a psychiatrist?” Richard asked. “I would tend\u2014though I know this will upset you, Cora\u2014to recommend a psychiatrist.” “You see!” Richard cried. “Hold, hold!” Malmont said to Richard. “I was about to say that I would wait a while yet. The child has had a potentially damaging infancy, with a mother who was indifferent to her, moving from hotel to hotel, from one nanny and part-tune governess to another. Much of that time, she was even in different countries where people spoke to her in constantly changing languages. That alone would be enough to disconcert her. I think we should give her a little more time in a stable environment such as this to see whether or not she requires actual professional analysis.” It was just the suggestion Cora wanted. She looked triumphant Richard merely sulked. “I trust I haven’t stepped into a family argument,” Malmont said. “You have,” Richard said. “But at least you haven’t supported this crazy notion of a family curse dating from 1860! If Freya merely needs love and stability, it is to counteract what her mother did to her\u2014it is not to exorcise some wicked demon that has possessed her.” “What does it matter?” Cora asked. “Whether it is psychological or a curse\u2014or a little of both. If love cures it, what does it matter?” “It matters a great deal!” Richard said. He dropped a fist on the table, made dishes rattle. “We will damage the child by helping her to nourish such superstitious folderol. There is no such thing as a Brucker family curse!” Almost as if on cue, the conversation was interrupted by the long, mournful howl of a large wolf . . .<\/p>\n

4<\/p>\n

Jenny had come to the Brucker estate on Tuesday. Wednesday morning, the bad weather broke. The gray clouds tore apart and let the blue sky through around their jagged edges. By afternoon, the blue was dominant over the gray and the night’s rain had mostly evaporated from the earth. The air was fresh. The gloom and the sense of impending disaster seemed to flee along with the storm. She spent most of the afternoon riding and walking a mare named Hollycross from one end of the grounds to the other. She found every corner beautiful, save for the dozen or so acres near the north-east corner of the Brucker land where limestone sinkholes pocked the earth like scars, where the trees were scraggly and awful and the field grass barely managed to keep a toehold in the heavily-limed soil. On Thursday, she rode Hollycross along the east border of the estate, watching the construction work on the superhighway which was not too distant. It displeased her to see nature ripped and destroyed, replaced with concrete and macadam. Lunch that day was pleasant, taken on the veranda behind the house with Cora, the breezes crisp. They talked of inconsequential things. The problem of Freya’s comas seemed to have receded until Jenny could barely remember the intensity of the fear she had felt on her first night in this place. Near three o’clock, she took her nail kit down to the pond and perched upon an outgrowth of limestone near the shore from which she could watch the few, graceful ducks gliding across the placid waters. Her nails were a disgrace. They were chipped and cracked by her unaccustomed exercise of the past two days. She began to file them carefully, soon absorbed in the simple task. “You’ll just chip them again,” a small voice said behind her. It startled Jenny so that she let her bottles of polish fall from her lap to the ground. Fortunately, neither had been opened. Frank appeared in the corner of her vision, rounding the rocks, Freya came close behind him. They were dressed in blue jeans and white teeshirts. They were perfectly beautiful children. “You shouldn’t scare old people like me,” Jenny said. “I might have fainted on you. Then what would you have done?” “Got some lake water to throw on you,” Frank said. The idea seemed to appeal to the twins. They both smiled “Aunt Cora used to worry about her nails,” Frank said. “But if you ride a horse, you can’t worry about sissy stuff like that.” “It isn’t sissy stuff,” Freya said. It was the first time she had spoken. If there were to be a battle of the sexes here, she knew for certain which side she was on. “When Freya grows up,” Jenny said, “she’ll take care of her nails, and all her boyfriends will be glad she looks so nice. It makes a girl prettier.” Jenny bent and retrieved the fallen bottles of polish, put them in her lap again. She was glad of the chance to talk to the twins. When she went before a class of twenty-five third graders this fall, she would have to be a little experienced in knowing how to talk with them. “Freya takes care of her nails now,” Frank said. Freya held up her hands, smiling through the fingers. They were both such impishly charming children. Jenny smiled back through her own fingers, then saw that what Frank said was true. Each of Freya’s small nails was free of excess cuticle and shaped, though they were rounded rather than elongated in the fashion of a grown woman’s nails. “She keeps them nice,” Frank said, “because she’s a werewolf.” He watched Jenny solemnly, waiting. She was not sure whether he was serious or whether she was being played with. She decided to accept it as a joke, and she laughed. Somehow, the rumors had filtered down to the children themselves. She couldn’t imagine who would have been so careless as to let such ugly ideas fall on such young ears, but she decided that joking about it was the best thing to do. “Freya isn’t a werewolf,” she said. “She’s just a very pretty little girl with a brother who likes to scare people.” “No,” Freya said, speaking again, her soft voice barely audible. “He’s right. I am a werewolf.” Neither of the children were smiling. They looked at her, waiting. Jenny would have liked to catch hold of the inconsiderate adult who had passed these rumors on to the children. Surely Richard wouldn’t have, especially since he believed werewolves were only superstitious folderol. Aunt Cora seemed to think there might be a grain of truth somewhere in the rumors, but even Cora would know that no good could come from feeding such frightening fantasies to children. That left Harold and Anna. She didn’t know them well, but she doubted that either was that irresponsible. “How do you know you’re a werewolf?” Jenny asked. Perhaps she could make the suggestion seem as foolish as it really was. “I go to sleep for long naps, and the wolves howl and kill things every time.” “But if you’re asleep, you’re not the wolf,” Jenny pointed out. Freya shook her head soberly. Her yellow curls bounced. “Yes I am. The ghost in me leaves when I sleep and takes the body of a wolf. Then it hunts.” Frank put his arm around Freya in a brotherly display of camaraderie. “She won’t hurt you, Jenny. Will you Freya?” Standing there, the sun gleaming off their hair, their jeans muddy at the knees, their faces freckled, they looked like nothing so much as two typical American children from some Norman Rockwell painting, healthy and alive and as cute as buttons. “No,” Freya agreed. “I won’t hurt you. Just rabbits.” Unaccountably, Jenny felt cold here on the sunbaked rock. Did she really believe this nonsense about curses and wolves? Could she, even for a moment, believe that part of this darling little girl went out at night and tore the throats out of rabbits? It was laughable, wasn’t it? Yet, she remembered the warnings in those dreams: Beware the unknown. Expect the unexpected . . . “Who told you all of this?” Jenny asked. “No one told us,” Freya said. “We just know.” Jenny wasn’t to be sidetracked so easily. “Someone must have given you the idea,” she persisted. “No.” “You must have overheard Cora or Richard\u2014” With that impulsive energy and short attention span that only young children have, Frank grew bored with the matter at hand, took his sister’s arm and tugged at it. “Let’s race to the stables! Maybe the pony wants to go out!” He pulled Freya away from Jenny. Together, they ran around the rim of the pond, startling the ducks who made squawking protest. They grew smaller and smaller as they ran until, at last, the shadows around the stables swallowed them. Her perfect mood had been destroyed. What was wrong with the child? What would a psychiatrist say il he were able to study her? Who in the Brucker mansion had been filling the twins’ minds with such ugly, primitive fears? She finished her nails, trying to lose herself again in the monotony of the task at hand. It didn’t work.<\/p>\n

That night at dinner, Richard was late to the table. When he finally did arrive, he took his place without speaking or looking at anyone. He filled his dish almost mechanically. Jenny could tell that he was angry, though it did not occur to her why. She focused her attention on her own plate and said nothing. She wished Richard had not lost the pleasantness she remembered from seven years ago. When he had filled his platter with a helping of everything, he raised his head for the first time and stared down the length of the table at his stepmother. “Freya is having another spell, Cora. Harold ought to go up and sit with her. God knows, though, what good sitting up with her will do!” Cora laid her fork down, took a drink of ice water from her goblet. “She had her vitamins at supper. I made certain of that.” “Cora,” he said, his tone not respectful in the least, full of scorn and anger, “Freya’s comas are not connected with her vitamin deficiency. There’s no escaping the fact that the girl requires psychiatric help!” “We’ve already discussed that,” Cora said. “I’ve discussed it,” Richard replied. “But I don’t think you’ve even listened to one goddamned word of it!” “Richard!” Cora said. “Please never speak to me that way again.” He pushed his chair back, rose from the table and left the room without asking to be excused. What have I gotten into? Jenny asked herself. She felt things closing in, building to an explosion. She didn’t want to be around when the fuse burnt clear down to the keg of powder. She could not control the rapidly deteriorating circumstances in this house, which meant that she was at the mercy of them. Cora did not seem anxious to talk through the remainder of the dinner. Neither of them were really hungry any longer, either.<\/p>\n

Later that night, Cora came to Jenny’s room. She was dressed in a lovely yellow lounging robe which contrasted with her dark beauty and her cultured dignity to make both those qualities even more evident. Jenny secretly hoped that, when she was Cora’s age, she would look as feminine and sophisticated as her aunt. If I reach her age, she amended. And immediately, she wondered why she always had to have such negative thoughts. “I’d like to talk to you about Freya,” Cora Brucker said. She sat on the edge of the bed. hands folded on the yellow robe. For the first time, Jenny noticed the weariness in her aunt’s dark eyes, the dark circles below that indicated bad sleeping habits. Jenny had been trying to interest herself in a mystery novel, but she had been making very little headway. The print seemed to run together, and her mind wandered over the tragedies of the past. She put the book down on the covers and sat up straighter in bed. She said, “I feel so sorry for her. She’s such a sweet little girl.” Cora nodded. “And I think she’ll be all right. We know that it isn’t anything physically wrong. She’s had the best doctors. She was in the city for a week with two of the best doctors on the staff there.” Jenny realized that Cora wanted to justify her own reluctance to bring in a psychiatrist. “If it’s a psychological problem, love will handle it. I know it will, Jenny. That’s what neither of the twins ever had before they came here. Lena was\u2014well, not much of a mother for them.” Jenny just nodded agreement. She sensed that Cora did not expect her to reply yet. She only wanted a sympathetic ear to which she could talk for a while. It might seem odd, to some people, that an older and more sophisticated woman would wish to confide to a sympathetic, unexperienced girl. But, darn it, they were both women. And there were certain times, certain feelings that a woman could only explain to another woman, regardless of their respective ages. “They were shunted around like furniture,” Cora went on. “They weren’t given affection except, maybe, by passing governesses who changed as fast as Lena got angry with them. And Lena is always getting angry with someone.” “You give them plenty of love,” Jenny said. “They’ll be far happier here. From what I understand, there’s little chance of Lena wanting to take them back full time.” “Very little,” Cora agreed. She stared out the one uncurtained window at the darkness beyond. After a few minutes of silence, she said, “Do you think Freya should see a psychiatrist?” “I could hardly say,” Jenny said. “I haven’t been around long enough to tell.” “She’s such a fragile child. She cried every night in that hospital. I don’t think it would be best to have a stranger probing at her, trying to tear down her defenses.” “She’s very quiet, sort of shy,” Jenny said, remembering that Frank had done most of the talking that afternoon while the little girl had watched and listened like an outsider. “Exactly,” Cora said. “She opens up with me. But it has taken nearly a year to get her to. If I can have a few more months to love her and make her feel wanted, I think the fainting spells will pass. I think this is what she needs\u2014love.” Jenny smiled and took one of the older woman’s hands. “Then it really isn’t a curse?” she asked, trying to inject a bit of humor into this, to lift some of the gloom. But the question had exactly the opposite effect. Cora paled and shivered all over. “I’ve long been interested in the occult,” Cora said. “I would never refute any possibility. Even a curse. It’s possible. And if you could have seen the dead rabbit that was found on the front porch\u2014and the blood on the window where the thing must have stood, looking in . . .” “Just because there was a wolf lose on the grounds doesn’t mean it was anything supernatural. There must be lots of wolves in woods like these when\u2014” “That’s just it,” Cora interrupted. “There haven’t been wolves in this part of Pennsylvania for almost twenty years. They’ve been killed off by bounty hunters, just like most of the mountain lions.” Run, run, run, Jenny . , . Cora shook herself, squeezed her niece’s hand and let go of it. “Never mind me. I just wanted to let you know that I do care about Freya. And I wanted to tell you not to hold Richard’s ways against him. He has only been so surly because he, too, is concerned. He loves the twins. He wants the best for them. We just disagree on what is best, that’s all. He’s a fine boy.” She stood. “Even if it is a curse,” she said, “my plan should work best. I’ve read a great deal on the subject. Before\u2014 Before this happened to Freya, and since. And I know that many curses can be broken by love, by a great deal of love.” Then she smiled vacantly and left the room. Jenny had trouble sleeping that night, thinking of poor Freya in her coma, fighting off real or imagined demons. Twice, on the verge of sleep, with restful blackness closing around her, she was awakened by what sounded like the distant, mournful howling of a lone wolf. But she could not be sure . . . When she finally did sleep, she had bad dreams. She was in the cemetery again, before the tombstones. Again, her dead parents and Grandmother Brighton warned her to run, to escape. Again she heard footsteps on the flagstone walk. The only difference was that she could see her pursuer this time. It was a great, black wolf with red eyes like hot coals, a slavering tongue that flicked across the sharpest, whitest teeth she had ever seen . . . She woke from that dream, muttering deep in her throat. Even when the dream had left her, she sat in bed, heart thumping, short of breath. Beyond the window, the Friday morning sky was mostly covered with flat, gray clouds, though the sun managed to burn its way through the covering most of the time. She opened the other curtain which had remained closed since her first night in this room, letting as much light as possible into the room. She showered, brushed her hair dry, dressed for riding and went downstairs. There was no routine for breakfast. Though the others had been up and around for some time, Anna wanted to make her eggs and bacon. She managed to talk Anna into letting her have just a roll and orange juice, and the cook lectured her on the importance of a good breakfast while she ate her meager one. Outside, though the sky was overcast, she felt better. It was as if the nightmares were locked in the house and only her optimism was permitted to come outside with her. She took her time on the long walk down to the stables, absorbing the fine country morning. Birds wheeled across the sky, settled into trees, chirped loudly from their hidden perches behind clusters of leaves. A squirrel paused on the rough bark of a sycamore tree, something held tightly in its jaws so that its furry face was swollen. It pretended to be a statue until she had passed by. When she finally did reach the stables, she saw that Hollycross’ door was wide open. It was a latching half-door, and the lock was stiff. She always made certain it was properly latched, but it looked as if she might have forgotten to double-check it yesterday. She hurried forward, afraid that the animal had broken loose during the night. Richard had told her what a rugged game it was to catch a runaway horse, even when it could not go beyond the fenced grounds of the estate. She didn’t want to be responsible for putting him through an ordeal of that nature. When she reached Hollycross’ stall in the line, she stepped through the open half-door, calling the horse’s name. The animal lay in its straw. For a moment, Jenny thought it was ill. Then she saw the blood. In the dim light of the stables, with the smell of crisp straw in her nostrils and with birds singing somewhere behind her, she saw the ruined throat of the once-proud mare. It had been clawed and chewed open. Blood had dried in the chestnut coat. The eyes were open and staring. There were other signs of violence. All of them had been made by teeth and claws. It looked much as if a large and cunning wolf had trapped the mare and had worked its evil temper on her. Before she could realize what she was doing, Jenny had back-stepped out of the stall and was screaming at the top of her voice . . .<\/p>\n

5<\/p>\n

Aunt Cora had wanted her to try to nap until they could reach Dr. Malmont and fetch him to the house, but Jenny would not take the sleeping tablet offered her. In sleep, there were nightmares. She would not even drink the drollop of brandy which Harold wanted to give her, for fear that she would grow drowsy under its influence. It was just not the proper moment for sleep. Not after seeing Hollycross crumpled in the straw in the dimly lighted stall. She would not permit the room to be darkened, but kept both windows uncurtained and kept the reading lamp burning as well. She never again wanted to be anywhere that there wasn’t enough light. She hoped she would not ever again have to go out at night or sleep without a lamp burning. In darkness, things could creep up on you without your knowledge, surprise you unpleasantly. Anna sat across the room, preparing next week’s menu. She seemed almost unaffected by what had happened. Yet, now and again, Jenny caught the old woman staring into space, her attention diverted from steaks, vegetables and desserts. The incidents at the Brucker house had finally come between the cook and her profession, and that meant the situation had grown serious. Jenny’s eye fell on the red spines of the witchcraft books. She looked quickly away. Could there really be a curse? And if there could be, she thought, is it possible that I am the one who is cursed? It seemed like everyone or everything she loved met with grief or death before long. First her parents. Then Grandmother Brighton, just as Jenny was growing old enough to truly appreciate the depths of that old woman. Then, when she was beginning to grow fond of Hollycross and of their daily rambles about the estate, the horse had died. And, again, the death had been a violent one. Perhaps Freya was not the possessed soul. Perhaps it was Jenny Brighton who drew disaster like a lightning rod. These and other terrible thoughts fled across her mind. She knew they were doing her no good, but she could not ignore them. At that moment, the door opened. Cora came in, closed it gently behind her. “Are you feeling better, Jenny?” she asked. She looked very haggard herself. “A little,” Jenny lied. Cora sat on the foot of the bed, patted her niece’s knee where it rested beneath the blanket. “We’ve gotten in touch with Dr. Malmont. He’ll be along in about fifteen minutes now.” The woman sounded so achingly exhausted that Jenny felt a little guilty about adding to her aunt’s concerns. She sat up a little straighter in the bed and brushed her dark hair back from her face. She tried a smile, then opted for a bland expression when she realized the smile must look very forced. “You look tired,” she told Cora. “You should have Dr. Malmont give you something.” “I’ll be all right. But, I swear, if any more of those real estate brokers come around, I’m going to beat them off with a broom!” She wiped a hand across tired eyes, smiled. “I guess they’re only trying to do their job. But we’ve told them again and again that we don’t want to sell the estate. Can you picture all this lovely woodland built up with motels and gas stations to service that ugly superhighway of theirs? That picture, on top of our present troubles, is enough to make me sick!” “What has Richard done about\u2014about Hollycross?” Jenny asked. “He called a veterinarian in town. They just got finished putting her in the vet’s truck. Richard’s acting quite mysterious about it, won’t let anyone enter the stable, won’t let Harold clean it out. In fact he gave Harold express orders to leave everything as it is.” That seemed odd. The sooner the blood was cleaned up and fresh straw put down, the sooner the stables would lose the aura of horror that it now held for all of them. “We’re having top halves put on the other three stall doors. Richard plans to chain lock them tonight and keep the keys in his room. He believes someone had to open the door for the\u2014wolf, or whatever.” “Not if it was a\u2014well that kind of a wolf,” Jenny said. “Then no one would have had to open the door for it, would they?” “But Richard doesn’t believe in curses,” Cora said. Anna did not join in the conversation at all, but kept her head tilted, busily juggling the following week’s menu again. “But you still do,” Jenny said. “Yes. I believe.” Jenny couldn’t say for certain what she herself believed. There were too many conflicting terrors loose in her mind to be able to pick one that was dominant. “For one thing,” Cora said, staring out the window at the noon sun, “we didn’t hear anything last night. In all that terrible battle between Hollycross and the\u2014 the thing, we heard nothing. Hollycross seems not even to have whinnied. And if she tried to return the attack, there’s no sign of it. Her hooves did not deal any damage out there.” Jenny had just long enough to contemplate the meaning of these details before Dr. Malmont arrived, huffing and puffing, cursing the number of steps from one floor of the Brucker mansion to another. “People must have been healthier in the previous century,” he said, his face scarlet as he dropped his bag on a chair beside Jenny’s bed. “You’d have to have the constitution of an ox to go up and down those stairs every day of the week!” He was such a comical character\u2014perhaps intentionally\u2014that he helped to take Jenny’s mind off the dark and unexplainable affairs of the household. His tie was askew, his shirt collar slightly open. She said, “Maybe people in the last century didn’t ride everywhere in a car and didn’t drink too many martinis or eat too many high calorie foods. Did they have potato chips back then, for instance?” Malmont looked down at his bulging paunch, then up at Jenny with mock consternation on his face. “Young lady, are you inferring that I have not kept myself physically fit?” “Oh, no!” Jenny said, exaggerating her response. Malmont shrugged. “Well, perhaps I haven’t followed my advice to the letter. But I make certain my patient’s do!” He took her temperature, blood pressure. He checked the size of her pupils, listened to her heart, took her pulse. He was swift and economical in his movements, handling the instruments of his profession as if they were somehow outgrowths of his own body. “Perhaps a little shock,” he said. “But you’re fine. My recommendations are a big, hot meal for supper, a little earlier than is the Brucker norm. Have it in bed. Will that be too much of an inconvenience, Anna?” The cook looked up, surprised that she had been addressed. “No trouble at all, doctor.” “Fine. Then, some light television or light reading. No melodrama. And early to bed after two of these.” He took a small bottle of sleeping capsules from his case. “Do I have to take pills?” Jenny asked. “You’re too old to be stubborn,” he said, writing the directions on the white packet. “I don’t want to sleep,” she said. “I’ll have all sorts of terrible nightmares. I know I will!” “Not with these,” Malmont said. “They put you so far under that you wouldn’t wake up for the end of the world.” She didn’t argue any further. As long as she didn’t dream, she preferred sleep to being awake. Awake, she had too much time to think . . . When Malmont left, Cora went with him. That afternoon, Jenny and Anna played 500 rummy, at Anna’s insistence, to help to pass the time. The old woman was clever enough to build a rivalry between them for the best of three games. Jenny saw what she was doing, how she was trying to divert her young charge’s mind from uglier things, but she didn’t mind. If Anna could divert her, that was fine. Heaven knew, she didn’t want to continually think of Hollycross, her parents, her grandmother, and of things that howled and crept about after dark. She was left alone while Anna went to prepare an early supper, but she filled the two hours with an old comedy that was playing on the late afternoon movie. She supposed it was a senseless and time-wasting film, but it distracted her. Anna brought a tray around six, lavishly set with a number of dishes and two thick slices of a cream-filled chocolate cake for dessert. Watching news, she ate everything that had been put before her. She had not thought she could take a bite, but it seemed that her fear and the day’s excitement had taken more out of her than she had thought. It was shortly before seven o’clock when she heard Richard and Cora arguing. She used her remote control to turn down the volume on the television set, listened closely. She could not make out many individual words, but she could gather the general drift of the fight. Richard was pressing, harder than ever, for a psychiatrist for Freya. Cora was resisting. Twice, she could make out loud, undisciplined cursing, and she felt herself grow hot with anger that Richard should subject his mother to such things. In a short while, the shouted conversation stopped with the abruptness of a slammed door. Then a door really did slam somewhere in the house. Feet pattered hurriedly across an uncarpeted floor. Distantly, she could hear Cora crying. What on earth was happening in this house? She started to climb out of bed and then thought better of that idea. She could not do anything to help. She might only walk in on something which was none of her business. Instead of moving from the comfort of the warm bed, she snuggled even deeper into the heavy covers that were draped across her. She turned the television back up and tried to get interested in whatever was on. In twenty minutes, she had flipped to all the channels on the cable and was still unsatisfied. It was growing more and more difficult to shut out of her mind all the strange events that transpired in this house and on the grounds surrounding it. The red bindings on the bookshelf caught her eye. She stared at them for a long while, then finally got out of bed and took the witchcraft volumes down from the shelf. Back in bed, she opened them, skimmed through them, and finally began reading in earnest. There was only one way to abolish fear\u2014and that was through knowledge. It was difficult to be frightened of anything that you understood. She checked the subject index of the volumes and began absorbing everything they had to say about curses and werewolves. At eight-thirty, Harold came to collect her tray and to ask if she would be wanting anything to snack on later. The commotion downstairs seemed not to have interested or bothered him in the least. He was the same dignified old man as he had been before. Twice, she gave him openings to talk about the ruckus between Cora and Richard. Twice, he pretended not to catch what she was hinting at, as if the argument had been of little note, even though the volume of it had suggested some degree of bitterness. At last, she realized that the only way to find out what she wanted was to bluntly ask him. “The fight,” she said. “What were they arguing about?” “Fight?” Harold asked, raising snowy eyebrows. “I heard parts of it,” Jenny told him. “Oh,” Harold said, “you mean the discussion between Mrs. Brucker and young Richard?” He was too much the gentleman to admit that his employers had been engaged in the next thing to a donnybrook. “That’s it,” Jenny agreed, smiling to herself. “It was over Miss Freya,” Harold said. He picked up her tray, looked about for a misplaced glass or napkin, found nothing. “And?” Jenny asked. “Mrs. Brucker has agreed to allow a psychiatrist to come live here in the mansion and treat the child. Richard has been busy, since, arranging that with Dr. Malmont.” She sensed that the old man did not want to speak about things of this nature, that he considered it some minor betrayal of confidence, even though Cora and Richard’s argument had been so loud. When he ascertained that she was not wanting anything, he departed with the dinner tray. For a time, Jenny lay there wondering about the wisdom of subjecting a child so young to the grueling experience of psychotherapy. She tended to side with Cora. Love alone might do the job, with much less of a drain on the little girl than cold, professional treatment might be. She told herself there was nothing she could do about it. She returned to the books she had been reading. These disturbed her more than they helped. If she had been pre-disposed to laugh off the idea of werewolves and the supernatural, the book gave her material for second thoughts. It was unsettling to discover that the Church in Europe did not laugh off such suggestions, but that it actually contained rituals for the exorcism of such evil spirits. Modern day Rumanians, Russians, Poles, Yugoslavs\u2014all these believed, to one degree or another, in such unlikely things as men who walked as wolves at night, in vampires and ghouls. Indeed, she discovered that many Rumanians slept with dried garlic leaves nailed above each window and door of their houses, to ward off things with fangs that sought victims after the sun had set. If such beliefs survived so strongly, even into this industrial age, who was to say they were any less true than the beliefs of, say, the Christian church? She read until very late, and she closed the drapes that hung aside the windows, so that the darkness could not watch her through the thin glass. The legends of those European countries\u2014and not, incidentally, the stories that originated in them as late as the middle 1960s\u2014were so fascinating that she read on until she fell asleep over the books. She slept fitfully. Many times, she half rose from bed, her heart beating furiously, only to drop quickly into troubled slumber again. She whimpered unintelligibly to no one and often kicked out at the covers that seemed to hold her down like heavy wings. In the morning, she felt more on edge than ever before, as if she were standing before a monumentally huge jack-in-the-box, waiting tensely for the unexpected moment when it would leap out on a heavy spring, leering at her . . .<\/p>\n

6<\/p>\n

By the following morning, after she had showered and dressed and lightly perfumed herself, Jenny knew that she wanted to leave the Brucker estate, wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted before. If the unexpected were to be sprung upon her, there was no more likely place for it than this curse-ridden house. The dream-voices of her dead family seemed to return to her, even when she was awake, urging her to flee. She had come here, in the first place, in hopes that she could be with people whom she loved and who would return her love and make her feel a part of their lives. All those whose affections had sustained her in the past\u2014all those were dead. Only Cora and Richard remained as links to the brighter parts of life, to love and understanding and gentleness. But now they had problems of their own: Freya’s illness, the bickering between mother and son, Richard’s increasing impoliteness, the heckling of the real estate speculators who made Cora so nervous\u2014and the unremitting air of the unknown which hung over the house and those within it. There was no time for the simple pleasures of life. It was, suddenly, as if she were a boarder in a house of strangers. The frustrated longing for stability and routine and love which had possessed her ever since Grandmother Brighton’s death could not be resolved here. There was no stability in a place of werewolves and curses. Routine was shattered by howls in the night, by badly mutilated horses, by children in unexplained comas. And the air contained an evil expectancy that stifled love. All Jenny could gain here was sorrow and a sharper edge to her fear. But how could she ever explain all of this to Cora? She did not want to hurt her aunt’s feelings or add to the older woman’s current list of miseries. Though she might not like being here, Cora might actually need her. She remembered the several times Cora had come to her room to talk about things, as if confiding, just a little, in the niece. Perhaps, unknowingly, she offered Cora the woman’s only emotional outlet at the moment. Yet she wanted out. Desperately. She thought around all sides of her problem as she descended the wide main staircase Saturday morning. She was not dressed for riding, since she did not want to go near the stables, at least until the memory of Hollycross’ corpse was not so sharp in her mind. She still wore her bedroom slippers which made little or no noise on the steps. Perhaps that was why Richard did not hear her and look up, even though she had not been consciously trying to sneak up on him. He spoke urgently, his voice a stage whisper, into the black receiver of the main hall telephone on its stand by the foot of the last flight of steps. “What should we do with her?” Richard asked the unknown party on the other end of the line. For some reason, Jenny stopped at the last landing on the length of stairs, her hand on the polished wood bannister, waiting. Ordinarily, she would never have considered eavesdropping on someone’s private conversation. Yet, these were strange times. His whispered voice had an odd excitement to it. And there was something about the way he had spoken that question which made Jenny’s blood run colder . . . He listened for a time, intense, breathing heavily. Then he said, “I don’t know if we can get away with it without arousing some suspicions.” He was quiet again. Get away with what? Jenny wondered. What sort of conversation had she stumbled into? Whatever it was, it made her more wary than ever. The voices of the dead began urging her to flee, their pleading more urgent now. “Yes, I agree. The drug itself won’t be a clue; too many people could get hold of it to make it unique. The killer would find himself pretty much untraceable.” More silence. Imperceptibly, at the mention of a killer, Jenny shifted her weight nervously. A board creaked under her, the noise piercing the unnatural morning silence of the house as thoroughly as the explosion of a stick of dynamite might have done. He was too engrossed in his conversation to hear. He did not look up or appear startled. She waited, afraid now to retreat\u2014aware that she could not possibly go ahead and let him know that she had been listening. Please, please, don’t let him see me, she begged\u2014 not quite certain toward whom she was directing this short and anxious prayer. “Let me think about it,” Richard said. “Since you’ll not be available until day after tomorrow, there’s no rush.” He listened, nodded, “Goodbye,” he said. He hung up, careful to cradle the phone as quietly as possible, then walked back the corridor and entered the distant kitchen through the swinging white door there. The squeak of that door’s hinges echoed in the still hall for long seconds before complete silence returned. Only then did Jenny allow herself to go down to breakfast. Richard was having a cup of coffee at the long, gleaming kitchen worktable where Anna made most of her culinary masterpieces. Neither the cook nor her husband were about. Cora had probably not gotten to sleep until late and was still in her room. The twins would be out playing somewhere on the large estate grounds. She and Richard were alone. “Good morning,” she said. She tried to sound bright and cheerful, but she was afraid that her uneasiness showed through. “Big day today,” he said. She poured herself coffee from the automatic percolator. “Oh?” “Dr. William Hobarth is arriving by car, sometime after noon. He’s going to treat Freya.” “I heard Cora agreed to a psychiatrist,” she said carefully. “You did?” He looked at her across the rim of his cup. She could not help but feel that his eyes contained a cunning calculation that was adding her up to see what she equaled in his plans. “Harold told me last night, when I asked,” she said. “I see.” She wanted to ask him who he had been talking to on the phone moments earlier. What the conversation about killers and drugs had been all about. But she sensed that such an inquiry might be a deadly one . . . “Not riding today?” “No. Not today.” “Just prowling the house, eh?” She felt uneasy, as if he were leading her to some question he especially wanted to ask. “Reading, I think,” she said. “I’m so used to hearing the cleats of riding boots that you managed to sneak up on me this morning.” He smiled. “I didn’t hear you until you were in the kitchen.” She knew he was wondering whether she had missed his phone conversation by moments\u2014or whether, perhaps she had heard it while waiting on the stairs. What would he do to her if he knew the truth? Anything? Or was she misinterpreting all this? “You didn’t hear me nearly break my neck on the stairs?” she asked. It surprised her how swiftly a lie had formed itself in her mind. “You hurt yourself?” he asked, though he did not seem as concerned as he might have. “Oh,” she said, “now I know you’re putting me on. You heard, and you’re teasing me about it. These darn slippers have extra toe room. One of them bent under and nearly pitched me down the last five steps. I kept my feet, but not without some clattering.” He relaxed visibly. “Get yourself a new pair. Or borrow another pair from Cora if your feet match. Those stairs are steep enough to make an accident permanent if you tripped near the top of them.” “I’ll ask her what size she wears,” Jenny said. He finished his coffee, rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I have some affairs to attend to in town, before Dr. Hobarth’s arrival. If he gets here before I’m back, he gets the walnut-paneled room on the east wing.” “He’s staying then?” Jenny asked. “That’s one of the benefits of Brucker wealth. We can have the head-shrinker come to our couch instead of going to his.” He smiled. It was a winning, boyish smile, but she could not be assured by it. “Seriously, though, we expect two or three weeks here ought to do it. He’s one of these modern psychiatrists who use hypnosis to make the subject recall things he wouldn’t ordinarily want to. With a child Freya’s age, it won’t take him very long to examine her past memories. Especially under the intensive daily sessions he plans. Besides, Cora was adamant. She won’t send Freya away from the house again. The doctor had to come to us, or there wasn’t going to be any doctor. Fortunately, Malmont persuaded Dr. Hobarth that the case was unique enough to warrant such an expenditure of his time. I think the fee we offered had something to do with it as well.” “Do you think that a psychiatrist is what Freya needs? Do you think she’ll be helped?” He watched her a moment, his expression clouding from a rather forced good humor to a dark uncertainty. But he spoke with stern assurance. “Of course she’ll be helped. Of course it’s psychological, Jenny. What on earth\u2014 Do you mean you’re beginning to swallow some of this supernatural drivel that Cora dotes on?” “No, no,” she said. But she was not sure whether she had accepted the existence of curses and werewolves or whether she believed more in modern psychiatric medicine. “You’ve been reading some of Cora’s books, I gather,” he said. “A couple of them yes” “My stepmother is a wonderful woman,” he said. “But she was always one for simple explanations. The occult, spooks and spirits, always appealed to her. If you believe in the supernatural, then the complex workings of the world can be made to look simple. You can say evil is the result of the work of bad spirits and ignore the complex nature of evil in men. When father died, she got stuck on such things even more. I try to dissuade her. It’s not very healthy to believe a thousand different silly superstitions.” “I guess not,” she said. “No guessing about it.” She did not respond. She felt as if he were trying to bait her into some sort of argument. She could see his temper flaring a little, though she could not understand his constant readiness to argue. Was such edginess a more important sign of psychological instability than even Freya’s long and unexplained comas? “Even the twins have heard the rumors,” Richard said. He swayed a little on the balls of his feet, as if he had laced even his early morning coffee with a touch of brandy. “Do you know who told them?” “I wish to the devil I did!” He smacked one fist into the open palm of his other hand. “They say no one told them. They say that they just know that Freya is a werewolf, possessed.” Why was she holding him here, prying at him with statements and questions, when all she really wanted was to be away from him? Did she think she could learn something from his reactions? What? And if he made a slip or reacted to something in a strange way, how would she interpret it? How could any of this shed light on his phone conversation which she had overheard? “That is nonsense,” he said. “But it shows you just how unhealthy such stuff is for young children. If Freya has actually come to believe this simple-minded sort of explanation for her comas, then Dr. Hobarth’s work is going to be a dozen times more difficult.” With that, he turned and left the house through the rear door. He walked to the garage where he kept the maroon Corvette, and a moment later he drove away, his foot rather heavy on the accelerator. She longed to say: “I know one thing which was not superstition, Richard. That talk on the telephone, just minutes ago, about killing and about drugs. That was real. That was not my over-worked imagination or a bunch of silly superstitions I’ve gotten from Cora. That was real. But how would you explain its meaning, Richard? What would you say? Huh?” But she dared not speak any such thing, no matter how much she might wish to.<\/p>\n

7<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Book Preview Dean Koontz (Deanna Dwyer) \u2013 Demon child [Version 2.0 by BuddyDk \u2013 August 2 2003] COLD WELCOME “What exactly was the curse?” asked Jenny. Her hands were so cold that they looked like white porcelain. ‘ Her aunt spoke slowly. “Sarah pledged that every generation of the Brucker family would contain a child … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":6228,"comment_status":"","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[421],"class_list":["post-6229","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-dean-koontz"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6229","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6229"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6229\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/6228"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6229"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6229"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/epub-book.com\/download\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6229"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}