SHADOWS ON THE WALL

Chapter 34: "Persistence of Memory" 

by Luciaphil

Cold are the hands of time that creep along relentlessly destroying slowly but
without pity that which yesterday was young. Alone our memories resist this
disintegration and grow more lovely with the passing years . . .
--The Wienie King, "The Palm Beach Story"

* * *

Voice Over (Thayer David): Indian summer has come and gone for the small
village of Collinsport. Unaware of what lies ahead, the players in this drama
soldier on. The last vestiges of autumnal splendor shrivel away and perhaps in
anticipation of what is after all, a season of death, shades of the past assert
themselves . . .

* * *

Victoria Winters glanced over at her pupils. Heads bent over books, David and
Amy were, for once, not fighting. She turned back to the row of telephone
directories on the library shelves. "Find a medium," the figure in her dream
had told her. "Find a middle ground." Vicki decided to interpret the first
instruction literally. That was after all what a spiritual medium was supposed
to be: a connection between the worlds of the living and the dead.

While there might be--no, make that--were certainly people in Collinsport
equipped with "the Sight", Vicki had the sense to want to find someone without
bias to the family, the estate or for that matter, for or against her. That
eliminated the nearby villages, who probably also boasted psychics, but who
didn't bother to advertise their gifts. Vicki supposed she could make
inquiries, but that would take time and somehow she knew time was something she
didn't have.

So that meant Bangor. And Bangor did boast a number of individuals who
evidently made some sort of living communicating with the Great Beyond. She
cast her gaze over the choices. She rejected the two who had the prominent ads,
her eyes honing in on a simple entry instead: Mme. Janet Findley. There was a
phone booth across the street . . .

Telling the children she needed to run an errand, Victoria hurried over to make
a call.

* * *

Infants, Eliot Stokes thought, as he stood at his office window watching the
students scurrying across the quad. The cliché ran true. They did look younger
every year. Freshmen may have lost some of their fresh-scrubbed naïveté due to
a changing world, but they were still absurdly childlike. Their new, earnest
seriousness, made them no more seasoned.

The professor sighed. He had papers to grade and the day was slipping by so
quickly. He didn't bother to look at his pocket watch; he had no need to. It
was fascinating really, how one in Academia could tell the time merely by
watching the students. They were less thickly clustered now. It was nearing the
start of the hour. He could see the wind swirling the faded, dead leaves about
in circles. It wouldn't be long now before the snow started to fall . . .

"'It is the blight man was born for,'" he murmured aloud. Did they even teach
Gerard Manley Hopkins in English classes anymore? he wondered. Would these
infants understand it if they read it? Eliot supposed he shouldn't complain. He
was fortunate in that he worked primarily with graduate students.

The quadrangle was emptying out quickly now. Soon the university clock would
chime and he would go back to his neglected work. The students that were left
walked--or ran--with purpose, unaware of his gaze.

"'Ah! as the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie.
And yet you will weep and know why,'" Eliot recited, oblivious to any
passersby. When one had tenure, there were a few luxuries; oddities became
eccentricities.

One of the few remaining figures looked up as if aware she was being observed.
He could see her bright blue eyes visible at even this distance--curious and
unalarmed . . .

Eliot took an involuntarily step backward and stumbled. When he regained his
footing, he moved toward the window and threw up the sash.

Icy cold air rushed in. His eyes scanned the empty pavement below. All was
silent, save for the rustling leaves and the faint clattering of heels echoing
as their wearer moved out of view.

He didn't think. He shouted her name just as the clock began to strike, its
clapper drowning out his cry of "Alexis!"

* * *

The inferior grandfather clock struck the hour and Nicholas Blair winced. Soon,
he told himself, soon. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and picked an
infinitesimal speck of fluff off his gray suit.

"Will you be gone long?"

Nicholas turned around. Maggie stood on the stairwell above him. He didn't make
her an answer. It was about time Maggie learned that he was accountable to no
one. She was coming along very nicely, but he thought there was room for
improvement.

"You're going to see *her*, aren't you?"

"Yes." No apology, no explanation. Merely a quirk of an eyebrow, a suggestion
that further inquiry on her part would be ill advised.

Maggie came down the stairs. She ran her lacquered hands across his chest.
"Just so you know what will be waiting for you when you're done with that old
hag."

He grabbed her hands and pushed them away. "All in good time, my dear. How were
you planning on occupying yourself this afternoon?"

"I was going into Bangor to do some shopping."

Nicholas looked at closed parlor door thoughtfully. "There is something I want
you to do instead."

* * *

Julia rapped on Roger's bedroom door. Try as she might to ignore what was bound
to become one more thing for handle, her conscience would not let her. No one
else seemed to be noticing the fact that Roger Collins was teetering on the
edge of a precipice. For a place bulging at the seams with people who purported
to care about each other, there was more communication in a big-city anonymous
apartment building than there was at Collinwood. Roger had helped her and she
wanted to help him if she could.

She waited. Perhaps he wasn't there, but she'd searched in every other place
she could think of. Julia knocked again. The force of her knuckles pushed the
door open.

"Roger?" She shut the door behind her.

The air was stale. Hadn't anyone been in here to clean? Roger was lying on his
bed. He had not even bothered to change his clothes, she realized. She stepped
over the clutter of letters and snaps on the floor and tried to shake him
awake. "Roger?"

He groaned a little and rolled over, his suit coat falling open.
What Julia wanted to do was to decide that he was blind drunk and sleeping it
off. The reek of sour brandy and the empty bottle lying on the floor supported
that theory. The shirt crusted with dried blood did not.

* * *

Maggie sat stiffly on the sofa in the parlor, staring at the fashion magazine
in her hands, not seeing the words. She would not look at the portrait above
the mantel and she refused to try the door. Nicholas had merely told her that
she needed to overcome her fears. She had not heard the key turning in the door
and perhaps she could leave, but this was clearly a test.

Something in Nicholas' tone had told her that it was one she was not to fail.

It's just a painting, she told herself, just a picture of a brute of a man and
his wife with the dead eyes and their crazy brats. Read this stupid article
about how to keep a man happy and don't think about it.

But the advice was idiotic and none of it worked. Maggie knew that well enough.
She'd lost Quentin to Miss Butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth Winters following
rules similar to what the author in the article was suggesting. She flipped
through the pages. There were books on the shelves in here. She could read one
of those.

Maggie got up and being careful not to cross the mantelpiece perused the
volumes. Too many of them were in languages she couldn't read. Yet. Nicholas
had said they would have to remedy that. As she pulled out _Vanity Fair_, the
hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

Footsteps.

Clattering down the stairs.

Giggles.

Running now.

The stories of Gregory Collins' children came back to her.

Faint screams.

All those bodies.

"I think it's time you confronted your fears, Maggie."

Nicholas had been annoyed with her jealousy.
A punishment?

Or was this not his doing? There had been talk in the village about ghosts at
Seaview long before Nicholas Blair had ever come to Collinsport.

Either way, Maggie didn't like it. She didn't like Nicholas with anyone else,
even if he was plotting to use and discard that so-called gracious lady. Maggie
wasn't a child. And she wasn't going to cower in a corner or run. She was tired
of being pushed around. The new and improved Maggie Evans wasn't going to put
up with this.

Deliberately, Maggie took the book and stood in front of the fireplace. Her
lips curled as she looked at each of Gregory Collins' children's likenesses.
"That's enough of that," she said firmly, coldly, with finality. As she spoke
the words, Maggie thought she saw respect now in Gregory Collins' expression.
The leer was still there, but not the disdain.

The sounds faded away.

"That's better." Maggie sat down and opened up the novel.

* * *

Julia stared at the festering knife wound, before collecting herself and
beginning to treat it. "How long have you been like this? Why didn't you tell
me? Why didn't you get treatment?"

Roger didn't say anything.

That she could read his deceptively bland face like a book gave her pause.
Without meaning to, she'd come much closer to understanding him than she had
ever expected to. "Roger, I need to know how long you've had this injury. You
have to tell me that much."

He muttered something that sounded like "days."

As she worked on him, the enormity of what all of them had suffered began to
hit her anew. "In the name of God, what have we done to deserve this?"

Now Roger laughed. At least, Julia thought that the terrible, racking spasms
were supposed to resemble laughter.

"God is dead, Julia," he rasped. "Or gone away. God hasn't given a fig for us
not since HE took her away."

"Took who away?" She glanced at the floor and Louise's eyes winked back at her.
"Roger, we're friends. If I can help you, please let me."

"We've been damned for decades." He winced as she probed at his flesh. "Get
away from here, Julia. Go away and don't come back. It's the only thing you can
do."

Julia opened up her medical bag. "No, Roger. That's the only thing I cannot
do."

* * *

It was with dismay that Elizabeth looked at the calendar on her desk. She
counted the number of days left for the third time. How could time pass so
quickly? She'd have to find someone soon.

From the foyer, she heard Nicholas' pleasant voice as he spoke with the
housekeeper.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so hard to find someone this time . . .

Of course, HE might choke on all that makeup, but so much the better. Elizabeth
smiled a little as an image of the hard-faced slut screaming her blue lips off
. . .

Did Nicholas think she was blind and deaf? Did he think she was a
fool--believing that idiocy that Maggie was his "assistant"? The whole town was
talking. Talking about what a fool Elizabeth Collins Stoddard was.

It would be easy enough. Maggie clearly despised her. All she would have to do
is invite her to meet to straighten out this little domestic mess. Somewhere
where they wouldn't be disturbed. Maggie would be arrogant and stupid enough to
agree. Elizabeth had seen the pure hatred in the girl's expression when they'd
locked eyes across an aisle in Brewsters. Maggie wouldn't pass up a chance to
throw her youth and beauty in Elizabeth's face. "Come to Collinwood," she would
say. "There's an entrance to the West Wing . . . we can speak there and no one
will be the wiser." Satisfy HIM and rid herself of a rival at the same time.

"Elizabeth, my dear, how do you manage to look more lovely every time we meet?"

The calendar dropped to the floor. "It probably has to do with my money," she
told him acidly. "I imagine that lends considerable appeal."

"Now Elizabeth, what nonsense is this?" Nicholas stooped and picked up the
calendar. He frowned a little. Not so much at her mood, he could work his way
around that deftly enough, but at what he was looking at. Odd that Elizabeth
Stoddard, conventionality defined, should have December 21 encircled so
definitively in deep red ink.

She practically tore it out of his hands and thrust it into a drawer.

Was this something worth pursuing? Or was it merely jealousy? Nicholas debated.
There might be a very simple explanation for the date, a birthday, perhaps. It
was doubtful that Elizabeth was a practicing pagan. He turned his attention to
smoothing over ruffled feathers.

* * *

Quentin peered down the corridor. He thought Vicki was still in town, but he
wanted to be sure. Until he knew exactly *how* she was related to him, if she
was related to him, he was in a holding pattern. Please God, he thought, don't
let her be Jamison's granddaughter. Please, no. What to tell her; what not to
tell her.

Damn it, why couldn't anything ever be simple?

Not hearing anything but the walls creaking, Quentin decided to go and get
something to eat and maybe a little, no make that a lot of something to wash it
down with. He took the backstairs. They were dark and narrow, but save for
David, they were almost never used by anyone, which made perfect sense.
Backstairs were for servants, from the days when servants were supposed to be
invisible. On this stairs, they could get to whatever floor they needed without
reminding the family that they existed. But even here, they were supposed to
turn their faces to the wall, trying to melt into the woodwork, if and when any
of the family passed by.

He paused at tiny landing. Someone else evidently had the same idea. He could
hear them on the stairs below, a woman's crinolines rustling against fabric.

Quentin clenched the banister as if his hand glued itself there. Crinolines?
Icy, cold air rushed up at him.

Swallowing, he forced himself free and rounded the corner just in time to see
the faint outline of a blonde-haired woman in a dark blue dress disappearing
down the next flight of stairs.

"Beth?" He began bounding down after her. "Beth?"

She looked up at him, her eyes great with hurt and pain.

"Beth, please--"

Her face became stoic; she turned to face the wall and melted away into
nothingness.

"BETH!" 

* * *

The truce between David and Amy ended as soon as they had cleared the village
limits. Vicki's head was throbbing by the time they reached Collinwood. She got
them into their separate rooms, situated with work she knew they weren't going
to do.

She had an hour. Madame Findley had agreed to make the drive out and to meet
her at Widows' Hill. There had been some debate about the outdoor location. The
medium rightly predicted that coastal Maine in mid-November was not going to be
pleasant. Victoria had been insistent about not meeting the woman at
Collinwood. She wasn't sure why, but she thought the figure in her dreams would
prefer this.

Cold or not, Vicki needed not to be in Collinwood. She put her coat and gloves
back on, ignored the voices behind the closed doors of the drawing room and
decided to go for a brisk walk.

* * *

Roger buttoned on a clean shirt.

Julia shut her medical bag. "All right, you win. No more questions. The next
time you get stabbed, don't wait. Come to me *first*. You're damned lucky you
don't have an infection."

**Release him . . . release him . . . Her. Use her. Bring her to HIM . . . **

No, he wouldn't do that. Not her. Not Julia.

"Roger? Roger, are you all right?"

He gritted his teeth and nodded, white with the effort of not giving in.

Sighing, she left him. "Get some rest."

**Release him . . . release him . . .**

Razor sharp icicles leaving tiny cuts slicing away the remains of his soul. Not
her, he thought. I'll find someone else.

**You belong to us . . . you cannot fight us . . . release him . . .**

Someone better, he thought. I'll find someone better.

* * *

Elizabeth stood; her face as of stone; one hand clasped over the other--the way
a lady was supposed to stand.

Nicholas tried again. "You are really making too much of this. Miss Evans is
not my sort of--"

He really thought her three kinds of a fool, Elizabeth reflected bitterly. Did
he think she'd never seen him mentally appraising the contents of Collinwood?
The way every man she'd ever brought home had done?

**He would do, my dear.**

Elizabeth started.

"What's the matter?"

**Forget about his mistress. What better revenge than to bring him to his
death?**

It's not time yet, she thought. It's not time.

**Yes, dear girl, I know that. But it will be soon. Best to be prepared. And
you always were prepared . . . doesn't the justice of it all appeal to you?**

"Elizabeth?"

**The tart is just as much his dupe as you. He is the real transgressor. He
would do, my dear. He would do.**

She could feel him retreating from her mind. The revulsion from any kind of
contact with him was still there; like a snail, HE left a trail of slime over
anything HE touched. HE wanted Nicholas. There had been scarcely concealed
eagerness there. And sense. Eliminate one whore and another would take her
place.

Nicholas reached out to her, enfolding her in his arms. "It's you that I have
come to care for, Elizabeth. You are the one that matters." His expression was
smug, but he might have been disturbed if he could have seen Elizabeth's.

Perhaps HE was right. Yes, perhaps Nicholas would do after all.

* * *

Now that the deed was done, Victoria was second-guessing herself. Would a
medium really be able to help her? Even if a medium was what was needed to
solve these mysteries, how did she know that Madame Findley was qualified? She
should have gone to Professor Stokes and asked if he knew anyone.

Well, it was too late now. The woman was probably halfway to Collinsport
already.

Victoria continued to walk.

From a distance, Quentin caught sight of Vicki. He was still shaken from what
he'd seen on the stairs and he wasn't sure he wanted to see anyone, let alone
someone who could be his great great-niece, a someone with whom he was
seriously involved. He wondered if he could escape her notice, but then
something in Vicki's manner intrigued him.

Vicki had been clearly wandering. Suddenly she straightened her carriage and
began to walk with purpose. She stopped at a tree and looked up.

"Vicki?"

She didn't turn around and he found that disturbing. As he came closer, he
could see what she was doing more clearly. Standing on her tiptoes, she pulled
down a rope ladder. A tree house?

"Vicki!"

Oblivious to him, Victoria began to climb up the ladder.

"Vicki, I don't think that's safe. It could be rotted. Vicki!"

Shit. He was going to have to go up after her.

* * *

As directed, Janet Findley parked her car to the side of the road. She chain
lit a cigarette and looked at the directions she'd scrawled down. This trip had
better be worth all this trouble.

She'd busted all speed records getting to Collinsport; ordinarily if someone
had called up, requested an appointment as soon as possible, to be held
outside, on a cliff no less, in a dinky fishing village an hour and a half
away, she would have firmly told the person to fuck off--not in those exact
words, of course, but she wasn't in this business to go stand outdoors and
freeze her ass off.

But when the girl had said "Collinwood," well, that was another story. The one
noteworthy thing about Collinsport, Maine, was the legendary wealth of the
Collins family. Kooks and eccentrics, they might be, but they were filthy, rich
kooks and eccentrics and in Madame Findley's business, kooks and eccentrics
were very desirable.

She pulled out a flask from the glove compartment and took a swig of vodka.
Something to take the chill off, she told herself. She checked her bag. There
wouldn't be much call for Tarot cards and crystals in the woods, but hopefully
she could persuade her client that they needed to move the gig indoors. The
medium took a last look at her makeup and then she sprayed her hair in place
with some more Aqua Net.

She got out of the car and smoothed out her clothes. The black cape was
suitably dramatic and had the added advantage of being 100% wool--not
admittedly why Madame Findley had purchased it, but an added bonus when you
were going to meet clientele out in the woods.

Miss Winters had given her very clear directions. Janet would give her that.
Sure enough, there was the path up ahead. She tucked the piece of paper in her
pocket and went to meet with her client.

* * *

Thankfully, the rope ladder was strong and bore his weight. Quentin pulled
himself up into the tree house. "Vicki?" He saw her huddled on the floor.
Whoever had built the tree house had done a thorough job of it. It was large
and sturdy. The wood appeared to be solid. It was really an ideal sort of place
for kids. He probably would have loved a place like this when he was little.
"Vicki!"

She raised her head, the fog starting to clear from her eyes. "How did I get
here?"

"You don't remember?"

She shook her head. "I was walking and then I was here. What is this place?"

He couldn't stand up and not being all that anxious to find out the hard way if
the wood was rotted, he settled for looking around. He reached out and picked
up an old board. "Fort Collins," he read aloud. "I'm going to guess this was
where previous generations of Collins' children played. It's a tree house. I
saw you walking. I called to you and it was like you didn't hear me. You
marched straight up to this tree and pulled down the rope ladder like you knew
exactly where it was."

Vicki shivered. "How old do you think this place is?"

"I don't know. It wasn't here when I--" he stopped. "I don't know." Hoping to
distract her from noticing his near faux pas, he opened up an old cigar box
lying on the floor, cigarette cards, bearing faded likenesses spilled out: Nita
Naldi, Clara Bow, Colleen Moore, Evelyn Brent, Nancy Carroll. On the inside
lid, he saw neatly and boldly lettered: Property of Elizabeth Collins. "The
late twenties, maybe a little older." He put them back in the box and closed
it. "I don't know if this floor is structurally sound, Vicki. I think we should
climb back down."

"You go ahead if you want to," she told him absently, doing her own poking
around.

"Vicki--"

She scooted over to one corner. "This must have been where Roger and Mrs.
Stoddard used to play when they were children."

Quentin agreed uneasily. "Look, you're not exactly dressed for this. Why don't
we come back on a warmer day and we can explore all we want to?" After he'd
come back and sifted through what was here first.

Vicki didn't pay attention. "I see. This was Roger's area. These Rover Boys
books have to be his." She picked up a small telescope. "Fort Collins," she
repeated aloud. She found a set of toy soldiers on the bottom of the makeshift
orange crate bookshelves. They were old and worn and the bayonets and swords
were chipped off, but they had the look of much-loved toys.

She surveyed the rest of the tree house. "That must have been where Mrs.
Stoddard kept her toys," Vicki said, pointing to the conspicuously neat corner
Quentin sat in. There wasn't much there, a few odds and ends: the playthings of
a girl on the brink of adolescence. "Lizzie didn't come here often," she said
in an odd voice.

Quentin stared and could feel himself backing away. "VICKI!"

She started. "What? Honestly, Quentin, if you want to leave, go ahead, I'll be
fine."

"I think we should both leave. Now," he added firmly.

Instead Victoria was burrowing through the last and messiest part of the tree
house. Roger and Elizabeth had been tidy children. Everything had a place and
everything in its place. What they had, they used. All anyone had to do to
realize that was to look at how they had kept their belongings.

Victoria sat back on her heels, puzzled. "This is odd. I thought maybe this was
a joint play area, but none of these things look like they would belong to
either Mrs. Stoddard or Roger. And it's so untidy here."

"Every kid needs space to make a mess," Quentin offered weakly.

"I grew up in an orphanage, Quentin. If there is one thing I understand, it's
children. These belong to someone else."

"A friend maybe."

Vicki ignored him. She began to sort through the objects. She revised her
assessment of "mess". There was simply too much bounty here for the space
allowed. And yet, it was all contained to one specific area. She would have
thought that when Elizabeth Collins had abandoned the tree house, this other
child would have taken over that territory. She found an old fashioned
Valentine, and opened it. The verse on the card was too faded to make out, but
the salutation and signature were not. "To Louise," Victoria read aloud, "Your
loving sister, Elizabeth."

Quentin sat there, his world crashing around him.

* * *

Roger strode rapidly toward Widows Hill. His mind was as empty as he could make
it. There was one solution.

The creatures that were latched onto his psyche like leeches did not seem to
realize something was amiss until he was nearly at the precipice.

**You cannot! You cannot! You must release HIM,** they screamed at him.

Roger now knew there were worse things than death and he was *not* going to
endure them any longer than he had to.

**YOU MUST RELEASE HIM!**

Just keep going, Roger told himself clinically. Keep going and don't stop.

"Finally." Janet Findley had been waiting far too long in the cold. A large
woman, she stood in the way of Roger's juggernaut-like determination. She
crossed her arms and planted her feet firmly down.

Unwilling to take an unexpected passenger with him, Roger forced himself to
come to a halt. The instant he stopped, he knew he'd made a mistake. Deeper and
deeper, they burrowed into him.

Janet Findley frowned. The man looked like someone who'd been on a bender. Or
two. The medium took in the unshaven face, the rumpled clothes, the haggard
eyes. There was something else though . . .

The voices were quiet, their terrible whispers silenced for a moment. **Use her
. . . use her . . . release HIM . . . **

She backed away, knowing that something was not quite right.

**We'll let you rest, if you bring this woman to HIM,** the voices promised.

Roger smiled at the woman reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I must have frightened you
terribly. I apologize. I didn't mean to do that. I'm Roger Collins," he told
her smoothly.

Madame Findley's greed got the better of her. A Collins, even a hung-over
Collins was better than no one else at all. "I'm charmed to make your
acquaintance." She peered at him. "Scorpio? Yes, I'm sure you're a Scorpio.
I've always gotten on well with Scorpios."

Roger tried not to wince. "Have you lost your way?"

"Not really," the medium explained. "I was supposed to meet a Miss Winters at a
place called Widows' Hill. I've been here over an hour and now I'm wondering if
I could have gotten the message wrong."

"Why would Vicki want to meet you and at Widows' Hill of all places?" Roger
wondered.

Reassured by his use of her client's first name, Madame Findley relaxed a
little. "Then you know Miss Winters?"

"She's my son's governess." Roger collected himself. "Well, you can't stay
here. You'll catch your death."

Madame Findley thought that was an odd statement coming from a man who wasn't
wearing an overcoat, but she was chilled to the bone and was not about to
argue.

"I'll take you back to Collinwood. You can wait for Vicki in warmth." He added
casually, "And of course, if you need to let anyone know where you are, you'll
want to telephone them."

"This was a spur of the moment appointment," she said. What she needed to do
was to get in with whoever held the purse strings.

"Ah. Is your car around here?" When informed that it was on the side of the
road, Roger told her the house wasn't very far and that he could drive her back
after she was done.

When Collinwood came into view, it was all Janet could do not to drool. She had
heard the place was large, but she had had no conception as to what "large"
meant. To her disappointment, the way Mr. Collins brought her to the house
wasn't the main one. The garden was overgrown here and she got the impression
that almost no one ever used this entrance.

"We're closer to this part of the house and it's so dreadfully cold."

She stumbled a little over a loose step and Roger reached out to steady her.
"Careful," he said as he guided her into the house.

As his hands touched her arm, Madame Findley pulled away as if struck. She
concentrated and then found herself backing away as far as she could. "Those
things . . . what are those things?"

Roger blocked the door. "I'm really very sorry about this. I had no choice."

She began to run.

* * *

Maggie turned the page of her book. Amelia Sedley was a dead loss, but she was
enjoying Becky Sharp's antics. Nice girls always finished last. It had taken
her long enough to realize it and if Amelia was smart, she'd clue into that
real soon.

She could hear someone knocking on the front door. Maggie craned her neck and
peered out the net curtains. She swore.

"Maggie! Maggie, it's me."

Damn straight it was him. Good old Pop. Probably blitzed out of his mind.

Sam Evans pounded on the door. "Maggie, please. I know you're in there. I just
want to talk."

Maggie turned the page.

"Maggie, I miss you. I worry about you. Everyone's talking about you."

Yeah, well, it wouldn't be the first time, she thought. Poor Maggie with her
drunken bum of a father--that was what they used to say. At least now, she
wasn't cleaning up vomit off the bathroom floor and putting the old man to bed.

"Maggie, I need to talk to you. Don't you remember what day this is?"

That was a new one. Maggie stopped and thought.

"I thought we could go out to the cemetery together. I bought some roses. She
always liked roses. Maggie, please, I can't do this alone."

The book slid off her lap and onto the sofa.

"Maggie?"

Maggie didn't move. She sat as still as the figurine on the table. Finally she
heard the station wagon rumbling away. One fat tear trickled down her cheek,
leaving a rivulet of mascara following in its wake.

She reached up and mopped the mess away as best she could.

In the corner, one of Gregory Collins' children began to materialize.

Without missing a beat, Maggie picked up her book. "I told you to go away."

The child vanished.

* * *

Even at her prime, Janet Findley had never been very athletic. Well past that
now, she was overage and overweight, trying to make her way through an
unfamiliar house, in a wing that was cluttered with odds and ends, furniture
not quite good enough to be worth storing, bric-à-brac all over the floor.

Roger and whatever entities he had driving him had several advantages. Roger,
despite his injury, was in substantially better shape and possessed of a much
better conception of where they were in the house. It really was not all that
hard for him to track a wheezing, aging psychic who left behind a stench of
stale cigarette smoke wherever she passed.

She flung open doors madly, hoping against hope to find a way out. When she
found the staircase, Janet thought she stood a chance. The door had a lock and
a bolt on the other side. She slammed it shut, turned the key and the bolt and
as fast as she could, sprinted up it.

The upstairs corridor was silent. Janet made a guess as to which way led to the
main part of the house. There had to be people there--people who would help
her.

She nearly at the door, when Roger came up calmly from another staircase.

"SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

"What seems to be the problem?"

Janet spun around. A young woman with long blonde hair was closing a door
behind her. She was pretty, attractive and well kempt.

"Uncle Roger?"

"Oh, thank God! He's crazy! He's trying to kill me!" To Janet's surprise, Roger
didn't advance any further. Instead he stood against the wall. She looked at
the young woman again. There was mania in those eyes. "No, no, this can't be
happening."

"Does anyone know she's here?"

Roger Collins shook his head. "She was supposed to meet Vicki. Her car in the
woods somewhere, off the road to the Old House, I think."

Janet gauged the distance between the young woman and the door. If nothing
else, she could always push the girl out of the way. She couldn't weigh more
than 100 pounds.

Then the girl pulled out a stiletto.

Desperately Janet Findley went for what she saw as the only other way out. She
opened the only other door she could reach and slammed it behind her. It was
only when she heard the key turning in the lock that she saw what was in the
room with her.

As the screams began, Roger Collins slumped to the floor.

* * *