Nathaniel

  Again, Michael's head bobbed.

  Janet paused for a long time, then reached out and touched Michael's face, tipping his head so his eyes were clearly visible. "Michael, are you sure you saw any of this?"

  "I—I think so."

  "You think so. But you're not sure."

  "Well—" Michael faltered, then backed off a little. "It was dark, and I couldn't see very well, except when Nathaniel was with me. Then I could see real good."

  The knot in Janet's stomach tightened. What was he talking about now? "You could see in the dark when Nathaniel was with you?"

  Michael nodded.

  "All right," Janet told him. "Now, what about Becky?"

  Michael squirmed. "I—I'm not sure. But I bet whoever she is, she's in Potter's Field, too."

  "But we don't even know who she is."

  Michael swallowed hard, then spoke in a whisper. "I don't care," Michael said, his voice reflecting his misery. "I bet they killed her, too."

  Janet gathered her son into her arms. "Oh, Michael," she whispered. "What are you saying? Why are you saying these things?"

  Michael met her gaze evenly. "Nathaniel," he said. "I'm only saying what Nathaniel told me."

  "But sweetheart, Nathaniel doesn't exist. You only imagined all this."

  Michael lay still for a long time, then slowly shook his head. "I didn't," he said softly. Then: "Did I?"

  Outside, Shadow began barking.

  That night, long after Michael had fallen asleep, Janet remained awake. She read the diary over and over, read all the entries, describing how Abby Randolph and her children had tried to survive the winter of 1884.

  How the food had run out, and they had begun to starve.

  How one of the children—the youngest—had gotten sick and finally died, and what Abby had done with its remains.

  And then, one by one, the other children had died, but never again was there a mention of illness. And in the end, all of them were gone except Nathaniel, who, along with his mother, survived.

  "… Better that some of us live than that all of us die…"

  She went to bed finally, but didn't sleep. Instead she lay staring into the darkness, the words drumming in her mind. Perhaps, she told herself, it didn't mean anything. Perhaps it was nothing but the ravings of a woman driven mad by the loneliness of the long prairie winter. Or perhaps it had been written somewhere else, packed in the trunk for shipment, and never unpacked again.

  Finally, near dawn, she drifted into half sleep, but even in her semiconscious state she could hear the name:

  Nathaniel…

  She shivered.

  There could be no question of the roots of that terrible ghost story now, for she had found its confirmation. Inscribed on the flyleaf of the diary, barely discernible in faded pencil, was the proof: the name Abigail Randolph.

  But why were Abby Randolph's things in this house? Who had put them there?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Michael wasn't sure what had awakened him. It might have been the headache that was playing around his temples—not really painful yet, but nevertheless there—or it might have been something else.

  It might have been the dream. Though the dream was already fading from his memory as he lay in the darkness, a few fragments remained. His father. His father had been in the dream, and some of the dream had taken place in this room. It had started here, and it had ended here, but part of it had been in the room downstairs, the living room. But it hadn't looked like it did now, filled with packing crates and a few pieces of furniture. In the dream the furniture had been old-fashioned, and his father had been sitting on a sofa—one of those hard sofas with slippery upholstery like some of his parents' friends had in New York.

  And his father had looked different. He'd looked young, like Nathaniel, but even though he'd looked like Nathaniel, Michael had known it was his father. And Michael hadn't been there. At least, he hadn't felt like he'd been there. Instead, he'd just been sort of watching, almost as if he was standing in a corner but nobody could see him.

  But it had started in the bedroom, the room that had been his father's and was now his. His father had been in the room, working on one of his model airplanes, when suddenly the door had opened, and his grandfather had come into the room. Michael had known right away that Amos was mad at his father. He'd tried to tell his father, but he couldn't speak. He'd opened his mouth, but when he'd tried to speak, his throat had tightened, and nothing had come out. And the harder he tried, the tighter his throat got, till he could hardly breathe. And then his grandfather had hit his father. Suddenly there'd been a razor strop in his hand, and without saying a word, Amos had raised it up over his head and brought it slashing down onto his father's back. But his father hadn't screamed. Instead, while Michael watched, his father's eyes widened, and his body stiffened and arched away from the pain. His hands, which had been holding one wing of the model, tightened, crushing the balsa wood and tissue paper into a crumpled mass. Twice more the razor strop had lashed down, but still his father had said nothing. And then it was over, and suddenly-Michael's father was in the living room, sitting on the old-fashioned sofa, and though he couldn't hear anything, Michael knew that somewhere in the house, someone was screaming.

  Then his father was back in the bedroom again, and he was packing a suitcase, and Michael knew he was going away and never coming back.

  And then, just before he'd awakened, his father had said something.

  "He's alive. I know he's alive."

  Now, as he lay in his bed, Michael wondered who his father had been talking about. Could it have been Nathaniel? Had his father known Nathaniel, too?

  Michael got out of bed and went to the window. The night was clear, and the moon hung just above the horizon, editing long shadows over the prairie. Old man Findley's barn shimmered in the moonlight, its weathered siding glowing silver in the darkness. Michael stared at the barn for a long time, feeling it, feeling Nathaniel's presence there.

  And then Nathaniel was once more inside his head, whispering to him.

  "It is time, Michael. If we wait, it will be too late."

  The night seemed to darken, the moonlight fade away, and for a moment Michael saw nothing. But then his vision cleared, and he saw a house, a house which he recognized, but couldn't quite place. And once again, he felt the familiar throbbing in his temples.

  Then he knew. It was Dr. Potter's house. In one of the downstairs windows, a single light glowed. Outside the house, ranging across the yard, he saw a dark shape that he knew was Shadow…

  Charles Potter had been sitting alone in the tiny room that was his private retreat. He had been there for hours now, sitting still in his large easy chair, moving only when the fire burned low and demanded more fuel to keep it going. The room was stiflingly hot, but the flames, Potter thought, were helping him think, helping him decide what he must do.

  So far, he had done nothing. So far, he had talked to no one about Michael Hall. Nor had he yet decided exactly what had happened in his office that day.

  It had been almost as if there were a third person there, a third person invisible to him, who was whispering to Michael. And yet, there had been something about the strange phenomenon that had told Potter there was more to that third person than an invention of Michael's mind.

  It was as if Nathaniel had been there, speaking to the boy.

  Of course it was impossible, and Potter knew it was impossible. But still, he had sat through the night, wondering if it could have been true, if Nathaniel could, indeed, have been in his office that day.

  A sound disturbed his reverie, and Potter stirred in his chair, shifting his attention to the night.

  He heard it again, a snuffling sound, as if some animal were outside. He got up from his chair and went to the window. Outside, he saw nothing but darkness.

  The sound came again, and then once more. Frowning, Potter left his tiny den and moved quickly through the house to the front door. He opened it a few inches an
d looked out.

  Suddenly there was a flicker of movement on the porch, and an angry growl. Startled, Potter took a step back, and as his hand fell away from the doorknob, the door itself flew open.

  Crouched in the foyer, his fangs bared and his hackles raised, Shadow fixed his glowing eyes on Charles Potter.

  Potter stared at the dog, his heart suddenly pounding. He took another step backward, and the dog rose from his crouch, one foreleg slightly raised, his tail slung low.

  As he watched the dog, Charles Potter suddenly knew that it had been true.

  Nathaniel had been there that day, and Nathaniel was here now. Charles Potter stared at Shadow, and knew that he was going to die.

  Michael stood perfectly still in his room, absorbed only in what he was seeing and hearing within his head.

  He was inside Dr. Potter's house now, and Nathaniel was with him. He was watching as Shadow slowly backed the old man through the house until they were in the tiny room where the fire blazed on the hearth.

  Michael could smell the smoke of the fire and feel the heat of the room. It was hard to breathe, and the smoke seemed to be drifting out of the fireplace now, filling the room.

  "lt is time," Nathaniel's voice whispered. "It is time for him to die. He knows, Michael. He knows about me, and now he knows about you. Help me, Michael. Help me make him die…"

  Michael could see the fear in the old man's eyes, see the growing terror as the man came to know that there was no place to retreat, nowhere else for him to go. Silently, he released Shadow…

  Charles Potter sank back into his chair, his eyes still fixed on the threatening visage of the snarling dog. And then, though he knew this, too, couldn't be happening, he began to feel another presence in the room. It was as if there were eyes on him, blue eyes, intense and angry, filled with hatred. He knew whose eyes they were, and knew why they were there.

  His heart was pounding harder now, and suddenly there was a pain in his head, an intense pain—as intense as those staring eyes that now seemed to fill his vision—and he knew what was happening to him.

  Then the vessel in his head, filled beyond capacity by his pounding heart, gave way, and blood began to spread through his brain. His face turned scarlet, and his head pitched forward to rest on his chest, as his arms went limp.

  Only when the last of Charles Potter's life had drained out of his body did the great black dog let the tension go out of his muscles, let his snarl die in his throat, let his coat smooth down. Then, after sniffing once at the body in the chair, he turned away and trotted out of the house into the night.

  In his room, Michael turned away from the window. His headache was easing now, and he was once more aware of where he was. In the back of his mind, there was a faint memory, like the memory of a dream, in which he and Nathaniel had made Dr. Potter die.

  But it must have been a dream, like the dream he'd had about his father. It couldn't have been real.

  And yet, as he went back to bed and pulled the covers close around himself he wondered.

  It had seemed real.

  All of it, everything Nathaniel had showed him, had seemed real.

  He was still thinking about it when he finally drifted back into sleep.

  The sun was well up, promising a beautifully clear day. Janet and Michael, who had been silent that morning, were cleaning up the last of the breakfast dishes when Michael saw the strange truck pull into the driveway.

  "Someone's coming, Mom."

  Janet glanced out the window, but as the battered old green pickup made its way up the drive, she couldn't place it. And then it came to a stop in front of the house, and Amos Hall climbed out. Seeing Janet watching him from the kitchen window, he smiled and beckoned to her.

  "What in the world—?" Janet began, and then suddenly realized she was talking to an empty room. Michael was gone. Assuming he had already headed out to greet his grandfather, she flung her damp dish towel over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, then started toward the front door. But when she reached the front yard, Michael was nowhere to be seen, though Amos still stood by the truck. "Hi," she greeted him, then paused uncertainly. Amos's weathered face wore an uncharacteristic grin. "You look like the cat that swallowed the canary," she said at last.

  Amos only shrugged, then stepped back to gaze admiringly at the truck. "What do you think of it."

  "Think of what?" Janet replied.

  "The truck. Think it'll do?"

  Janet stared at it. It was of indeterminate age, though far from new, and it had apparently seen a lot of service. There didn't seem to be a square foot on it anywhere that was free from small dents and scratches, and both the fenders were badly crushed.

  "Do for what? It looks like it's ready for the junkheap." she said at last.

  Amos nodded. "Inside, though, where it counts, it's sound as a dollar. It ought to give you a good ten, maybe twenty thousand miles yet."

  "Me?" Janet took a step forward. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "Well, you can't spend all your time walking to the village, then begging rides home off the neighbors," Amos replied, his eyes shifting pointedly toward the Simpsons' farm next door.

  Instantly Janet realized that Ione had been right yesterday. Someone had apparently seen her getting into lone's car, and the news had gotten back to the Halls. "But I don't need a truck—" she began.

  Amos interrupted her.

  "How do you know what you need and don't need? All those years in the city—how would you know what you'll need out here? Anyway, I was up to Mulford this morning, and found this thing just sort of sitting around looking for a new home. So I bought it. What do you think?"

  Suddenly touched, Janet went to Amos and slipped her arms around him. "I think you're wonderful, but I think you'd better tell me how much you paid for it, so I can pay you."

  Amos self-consciously pulled her arms loose and stepped back. "Don't be silly. They practically gave it to me. You keep your money for other things. You know how to drive a stick shift?"

  Janet nodded. "I used to have a VW."

  "Then you're all set. This thing might take a little getting used to, but you'll catch right on. Get in."

  Tentatively, Janet climbed into the driver's seat. The upholstery had long since given up any notion of holding itself together. Someone, though, had installed seat covers, and though she could feel the springs beneath her, there didn't seem to be any sharp points sticking through. She turned on the ignition, and a moment later the engine coughed reluctantly to life. A red light on the dashboard glowed for a second, flickered, then went out. The gas gauge read empty.

  "I'd better get it to a filling station," she commented, but Amos only chuckled.

  "She's full up. The gauge doesn't work, and neither does the speedometer or the temperature gauge."

  Janet gave him an arch look. "Did they knock the price down for any of that?"

  "Can't knock down something that's already collapsed," Amos replied. "Want to take her for a spin? You can take me home and say hello to Anna, and Michael can give me a hand with a couple of things."

  Janet thought of all the things she had to do that morning, then quickly decided there was nothing that couldn't wait. "Sure. Michael can ride in the—" And suddenly she fell silent for a moment. "Where is Michael?"

  Amos shrugged. "Isn't he in the house?"

  Janet shook her head uncertainly. "I don't think so. I thought he came outside when you got here. We were both in the kitchen, and I just assumed—"

  "He didn't come out here," Amos told her. Janet shut off the truck's engine and jumped to the ground. "Michael?" she called. "Michael!" When there was no reply, she smiled apologetically at Amos. "He must have gone upstairs. I'll get him."

  But he wasn't upstairs, or anywhere in the house. A few moments later, she was back in the front yard, alone. "I can't imagine where he's gone. I know he saw you—"

  "That's kids," Amos replied. "He's probably out back somewhere, pokin' around. Come on."


  They went around the corner of the house, then into the barn. Janet called out to her son, but still there was no answer. And then, as they were leaving the barn and heading toward the toolshed, a slight movement caught Janets eye. She stopped, and turned to stare thoughtfully at the cyclone cellar. Amos, his eyes following hers, frowned.

  "What'd he be doing down there?"

  "I don't know," Janet replied. "But would you mind waiting here while I go see?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she started purposefully toward the sloping door.

  She pulled the door open, letting it fall back so that the sunlight flooded into the dimness of the storm shelter. In the far corner, crouched on the floor with his arms wrapped around Shadow, she saw Michael, his knees drawn up against his chest, his eyes wide with trepidation.

  "What—?" she began.

  "Are you mad at me?" Michael asked, his voice quavering slightly.

  "Mad at you?" Janet repeated. "Honey, why would I be mad at you?" ,

  " 'Cause I didn't say hello to Grandpa."

  Janet paused. Up until now, she'd assumed that Michael hadn't realized who was in the truck. "So you did see Grandpa?"

  Michael nodded.

  "Then why didn't you say hello to him?"

  Michael shrugged unhappily. "I—I had a dream last night," he said at last.

  Sensing his fear, Janet sat down on the bench next to her son and put her arm around him. "A bad dream?"

  Michael nodded. "It was about Dad. Grandpa was beating him. He was beating him with a piece of leather."

  Janet felt her body react to the image that suddenly formed in her mind, but when she spoke, she managed to keep her voice steady. "But honey, you know dreams are only dreams. It wasn't real. Is that why you didn't say hello to Grandpa this morning?"

  Again, Michael nodded. He pulled away from her and pressed himself closer to the big dog. For a moment, Janet wished Mark were there. He would know what to say to Michael, how to explain what was happening to him. But if Mark were here, she realized with stark clarity, none of this would be happening; there would be nothing to explain to Michael. "The next time you have a dream like that, I want you to tell me about it right away, all right? That way, we can talk about it, and you won't have to be afraid."