Part 35 (2/2)
The old man had to be really crazy. He believed so fully in what he was saying.
Except that...
Finn had seen the fog. Fog. A weather phenomena. It came and went so strangely. This was New England, if you don't like the weather, wait a few hours, it will change.
No, even in New England, fog did not come and go so quickly.
He was suddenly tempted to ask Fallon if he'd heard about a demon called Bac-Dal.
He held his tongue. Here was old Fallon, grumpy, Ichabod-like, stern and straight, like the Pilgrims of old, casting herbs into a cauldron.
He didn't dare trust Fallon.
”Certainly, Mr. Fallon. If your intent is to keep the property safe, then, well, more power to you, sir.”Fallon pointed a long bony finger at Finn. ”Don't mock any of it, boy. Like I said, if you've got any sense at all, get yourself into a house of prayer. Whatever kind.” He shook his head. ”I'll not be seeing you after All Hallow's Eve. And that's a fact.”
”You're right. We're taking off first thing the following morning.”
”Aye-uh, boy. One way or the other. You'll be gone. Now, leave me be. I run this place. And it's not for the guests to be nosy and invading the kitchen late at night So...”
”Good night, Mr. Fallon,” Finn said.
He turned and left the kitchen, walking back through the silent house to his wing, and his room. Once there, he very carefully ascertained that he was locked in.
Fallon's actions disturbed him.
Oddly enough, it was because he believed Fallon. The old man's chants and spells seemed entirely benign, as if he did feel the need to protect the house.
He also wanted to talk to the fellow, question him.
No matter how sincere he had seemed, and how innocent the words of his chant, Fallon wasn't to be trusted. No one here could be trusted.
He was exhausted; it was ridiculously late-or early-whichever way you looked at it. He desperately wanted to sleep; he was afraid to sleep. Megan had left him, but in all good sense, he had to be glad.
Because he didn't know what he did in the dead of the night.
He punched his pillow, determined on getting some sleep.
Megan should have slept well. She was happy when Finn left, as if she remained enwrapped with his warmth. He seemed to understand everything. He loved her.
But she tossed and turned for a long while, and when at last she slept, the dreams plagued her again.
It began with the sound of her name. Soft, echoed in her mind, whispered compellingly, erotically. Like a siren's call, that whisper- breeze of her name could not be ignored. She felt as if she drifted in response, following.
She returned to the forest, and the unhallowed cemetery.
Old Andy wasn't there to tell her tales this time.
The trees created a dark green canopy, and the place smelled richly of vegetation and the earth. She felt the pads of her feet touch down on damp ground and tufts of gra.s.s. She knew she was walking to the strange marble statue she had a.s.sumed to be an angel, but of course, there, in the unhallowed graveyard, was a demon instead.
She walked through the fog, hearing her name being called. There were whispers all around her. She was afraid to go forward, and yet compelled to do so.
She knew she was being drawn to the statue. There were little markers in the ground, for others who had lived long ago. Spirits seemed to rise like wraiths, or a part of the fog, as she moved. They whispered, sang... or chanted. Wisps of the fog, or the spirits, swept around her, and like the voices, urged her on.She thought she saw faces, and she should know them, but she couldn't see clearly.
”So perfect,” someone whispered.
”The voice of a nightingale.”
Not that perfect! she wanted to cry. She wanted to tell them that they didn't want her, that the demon Bac-Dal didn't want her.
”In death, so there is life,” someone else whispered.
”The time has yet to come,” came another murmur.
”But He would touch, He would see, He would know!”
A figure stood before her. She wanted to turn and run, and she managed to stop walking. Megan argued with herself that she was a creature of free will, that she could fight the force that seemed to be carrying her forward. And so she could.
She looked back.
Yet... it seemed as if she still looked forward.
A figure, like the first, was behind her. Both wore capes with cowls, dark and swirling as if there were a great wind, but there couldn't be, because the fog didn't lift, it drifted and swirled around her feet.
She didn't know whether to run ahead, or escape, and run in the other direction. She heard her name being called again. Softly, tauntingly. She didn't realize she had begun to move again, but her steps were bringing her closer to the ent.i.ty before her. Through the blue fog, she saw a blaze of red. Pinpoints... eyes. She couldn't really see, but she had a sense of something fetid, rotting, dead.
Instinct warned her that she must get away. She was not being held, and yet, it was as if there were arms about her, luring her ever forward. Ivory fingers seemed to dance in the blue light, beckoning.
Megan, Megan, Megan...
Then...
The creature. The creature she had seen at the museum. The face of a man, but with horns at the temples, a sharp, jutting chin, evil, burning eyes.
Megan... !
With a smile, he whispered her name, intimately, as if it were a caress.
She turned at last, running; there was the figure behind her. She must reach it, because help had to come from behind...
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