The Right Hand of Evil

  In his arms, feeling safe, and comforted, and loved.

  And this morning he'd obviously decided to let her sleep in and take care of the kids himself. She pulled on a thin robe and went to the nursery, half expecting to find her youngest daughter awake and playing in her crib. But Molly was gone, her bedding straightened up and tucked in, exactly the way she herself always did it. Sighing contentedly, she moved out onto the landing.

  And instantly knew that something was wrong.

  She peered down into the yawning entry hall as she moved toward the top of the stairs. Was it something about the light?

  She looked up at the skylight, but it looked the same as it had the day Ted cleaned it. Yet when she looked down once again, she realized that there was, indeed, something odd, as if a slight haziness was hanging over everything. Janet blinked a couple of times and rubbed her eyes, but the haziness remained. Then, when she started down the stairs, she felt it.

  There was a chill in the air, as though it were the middle of winter and a freak cold snap had struck. But the night had been warm enough to leave the windows open, and a single thin blanket had been sufficient. At some point—probably early this morning when the sun began flooding in—she'd kicked that away, too. Yet as she descended the stairs the air grew colder, until, by the time she reached the first floor, gooseflesh was creeping over her skin.

  She paused at the bottom of the stairs. The haze had thickened, and though she smelled nothing unusual, the atmosphere seemed heavy and hard to breathe.

  Fumes of some kind?

  That must be it—Ted must be painting, or cleaning something, or—

  Molly!

  Where was Molly? If she were breathing these fumes—

  Janet quickened her step, moving out of the entry hall into the dining room, hurrying toward the kitchen. Then something caught her eye, and turning, she stared at the mural on the wall, the mural she'd been working on only last night.

  The marble tile of the terrace she had so carefully textured, so you might expect it to be smooth and cold to the touch, looked old and stained.

  The balustrade appeared chipped and battered.

  And beyond the balustrade, the garden she'd created, painstakingly drawing and coloring every leaf and blossom, had died.

  The leaves were gone, only bare limbs and twigs remaining. Even the silvery glow of moonlight had been mottled, and the sky was tinged with green as if a terrible storm were about to break.

  It wasn't possible, she thought. No one could have repainted the whole wall during the few hours she'd been asleep!

  That was it! It had to be.

  She must still be asleep, and this was a nightmare from which she'd awaken in a minute or two. She'd be back in her bed, and it would take a few seconds before she realized that her work—the best work she'd ever done—had not really been ruined.

  But she didn't awaken.

  Instead, the mural itself seemed to come to life. The clouds in the sky darkened, and then the branches of the trees began to move, bending forward, reaching, their twigs stretching like skeletal fingers, straining toward her. Then talons appeared at the ends of the twigs, and as one of the branches lashed toward her, Janet reflexively turned away, stumbling toward the kitchen.

  Then she heard it.

  A soft cry, muffled, almost inaudible.

  She stopped short, one hand on the kitchen door, listening.

  It came again.

  A baby?

  Molly?

  Pushing the door open, she strode into the kitchen, her eyes going to Molly's playpen, over in the corner, safely away from the stove.

  Empty!

  Her mind raced. The car was outside, so Ted hadn't gone somewhere and taken Molly with him. Where was she? Where was he?

  The carriage house?

  No! The cry she'd heard—and now she was almost certain it had been Molly—had come from somewhere inside the house! Turning away from the back door, she went back to the dining room.

  The sound she heard this time was so low it was almost inaudible. Janet held her breath, wishing there were some way to silence the pounding of her own heart.

  There!

  A low, throbbing sound, so low she wasn't quite certain whether she'd heard it or simply felt it. It could have come from the floor itself, up through her feet and body, and only then into her consciousness.

  The basement.

  It was coming from the basement.

  As she pulled the door to the basement open, she heard the muffled cry of the baby again. But it was much clearer now. She groped for the light switch. Flipped it.

  "Molly?"

  No answer.

  "Molly!" Then: "Ted? Are you down there?"

  There was still no answer, and she started down the steep flight of stairs.

  As she did, the cold deepened, its icy grip closing around her.

  As a thick haze appeared out of nowhere, the glare of the naked bulb that lit the stairs was muted to a pallid silver glow that barely held the shadows at bay. The bulb itself appeared to be suspended in nothing but the gathering mist.

  The throbbing sound was louder with every step she took, but so also was the sound of the crying baby.

  Nor was there any longer any question that the bawling child was Molly.

  Janet came at last to the bottom of the stairs, and the closed door to Jared's room. The pulsing rhythm was all around her now, drowning out even the pounding of her heart, but still she could hear Molly crying out. She put her hand on the doorknob to Jared's room and paused, a terrible feeling of foreboding passing over her. Suddenly, she wanted to turn away from the closed door, to escape the throbbing beat of the music and the terrible cold.

  But she couldn't.

  Not until she'd found Molly.

  The doorknob was so cold it numbed her fingers, and when she tried to turn it, she thought at first that it might be locked.

  Then the knob turned.

  The light above her blinked out.

  Janet froze in the darkness.

  The bulb. It was only the bulb. No one was above her; no one had turned the light out. Yet all around her—everywhere and nowhere—hidden in the darkness, she could feel a presence.

  The blackness held her to the spot where she stood like an insect pinned in a display case. She had a terrible sense of being watched, as if some unseen being were above the case, peering down at her as if at some strange species.

  A feeling of utter helplessness came over her. The throbbing rhythm grew stronger still. The cold and darkness threatened to strangle her. With every fiber of her being she tried to free herself so she could flee back up the stairs and escape from the horror that held her in its thrall.

  Then, once again, Molly cried out.

  This time her voice was filled with terror. In an instant all of Janet's maternal instincts rose within her. Her own fears vanished and she threw off the bonds of the cold and blackness. She pressed against the door.

  It opened a crack and a flickering light crept through.

  Janet pushed the door harder, and it swung open.

  As she saw what lay beyond, a terror beyond anything she'd ever felt before gripped Janet.

  She began to scream.

  And scream. And scream...

  The sound of her name was so faint that at first Kim barely heard it. But then she heard it again: "Kiiiimmm"—the single syllable drawn out as if whoever was calling out to her had almost despaired of her responding. Then, as the cry came a third time, it seemed suddenly sharper.

  "Kim? Kim! Kim, can you hear me?"

  Hands gently shook her. She opened her eyes and looked up. Three faces loomed above her, but their features were lost in the glare of the bright light behind them. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the light, the faces came into focus.

  Sister Clarence. Father Bernard. Father MacNeill.

  But where was she? She'd been in the lake, trying to save Jared, but—

  She tried to sit up, but Sister Clarence
's hand held her back.

  "It's all right, Kim. Don't try to get up. Just try to tell us what happened."

  "Jared!" Kim blurted. "He needs me! He's—" But then, before she finished the sentence, her mind began to clear. "Molly!" she cried out. She pressed her hands against her eyes and shook her head as if trying to deny even the memory of what she'd seen. "They cut her up! They cut her up, and put her in jars, and—" Now her sobbing did overtake her, and a moment later she felt Sister Clarence's arms go around her. The nun's hand gently stroked her hair.

  "It's all right, Kim. We're here. Nothing's going to happen to you. Just try to tell us what you saw."

  A kaleidoscope of images was tumbling through her mind, and she instinctively clutched at the tiny golden cross her aunt had given her. "What is it?" she whispered. "What's happening to Jared? He—"

  "Hush, child," Sister Clarence soothed. "You're safe with us. Everything will be all right." But even as the nun spoke, Kim knew that Sister Clarence didn't believe her own words.

  "Just tell us," Father MacNeill told her. "Don't worry if none of it makes sense. But you have to tell us everything."

  Kim's voice choked as a sob rose in her throat. "Mommy says it's just dreams, and—" She broke off again, remembering the terrible scene of Sandy and Luke making love in front of the candlelit altar. "I can't," she whispered. "It's ... it's..."

  "I know," Father MacNeill said. He reached out and laid his fingers on her forehead, as if baptizing her. "But no matter how terrible it seems to you, you can tell us. You can tell us. You can trust us."

  As the priest's cool fingers continued to stroke her brow, Kim felt the terror inside her begin to lose its grip. Slowly, she began relating all the nightmares she'd had since she and her family moved into the old house on the edge of the town. She told them about Muffin's disappearance, then Scout's, and about the humiliation of Sandy spitting at her. "And then later this morning," she concluded, her voice breaking as she choked back her tears, "I—I thought—oh, God, I thought Jared and my father were killing my baby sister!" Her eyes fixed on Father MacNeill. "I was in the biology lab, and I saw—"

  She faltered as another sob threatened to choke her, then went on. "I saw Molly. She was all cut up, and they'd put her into jars of—of—" She gazed beseechingly at the priest. "What is it, Father? What is it?"

  Instead of answering Kim's question, Father MacNeill's hand covered Kim's as she clutched the cross. "Where did this come from?" he asked.

  Kim frowned. "M-My aunt," she said uncertainly. "Aunt Cora gave it to me just before she died."

  The priest nodded. "And there's another one, isn't there?" he asked.

  Kim started to shake her head, but then the scene in her aunt's room at the Willows came back to her, and she nodded. "It was for Molly," she breathed. "My mother took it."

  Now Father MacNeill took both of Kim's hands in his own and looked into her eyes. "I want you to think carefully," he said. "Did your mother put the cross on Molly?"

  Kim shook her head. "She said she'd keep it until Molly got older."

  "But it's in the house?" Father MacNeill pressed.

  Kim nodded. "It's probably in Mom's jewelry box."

  "And just now you heard Jared calling you, is that right?"

  Once again Kim nodded. "But it wasn't really him, was it?" she said. "I mean, wasn't it you who was calling my name, trying to wake me up?"

  The priest's hands tightened on Kim's. He looked straight into her eyes. "I'm going to tell you something, Kim." The timbre of his voice brought all of Kim's terrors flooding back as the priest continued to squeeze her hands. "You have to be strong, Kim," he went on. "Can you do that?"

  Kim hesitated, then forced herself to nod.

  "They weren't dreams, Kim," Father MacNeill said. "None of it. Everything you saw—everything you thought you dreamed—really happened. All of it."

  CHAPTER 37

  It wasn't possible. None of what she was seeing could possibly be happening.

  Janet's last scream hung in the air, fading away, only to build once again, as if somehow the vast chamber into which she'd stumbled were amplifying it and reamplifying it.

  Every muscle in her body had gone flaccid, and for a moment that went on forever, she thought she would collapse to the floor.

  Her mind cast out in every direction, seeking something, anything, that would make sense of what she was experiencing.

  A nightmare?

  But she was awake! She knew she was awake.

  An hallucination. That had to be it—everything she'd seen, the strange look to the house, the bizarre alterations to her trompe l'oeil, none of it could be anything but an hallucination.

  Her eyes flicked over the impossible vision before her. Jared's room, that musty, black-walled chamber, had vanished. But what had taken its place couldn't exist. As the door had swung open, the piercing light from within blinded her for a second, but then her vision had cleared and she'd seen it: a space so vast it seemed to go on forever, its farthest reaches lost in shadows so black they devoured the harsh, cold light that seemed to come from everywhere—and nowhere. But what had made her scream—the image that had ripped an anguished howl of pure horror from her throat—was the altar that loomed in the distance, dominating the entire space, although it appeared so far away as to be unreachable.

  Bones. The whole thing was made of human bones—thousands of them. The altar was covered with flickering candles from which the scent of burning flesh billowed into the thick, smoke-filled atmosphere. On the altar lay the desiccated remains of a hand.

  A human hand.

  A right hand.

  Its nails split with age, its rotted skin falling away, its forefinger curled as if beckoning to her. She knew instinctively where it had come from: the desecrated tomb of George Conway. Even as its image burned into her mind, Janet forced herself to look away, only to be faced with something else. It, too, she recognized in a flash: the severed right forepaw of her son's pet, Scout. Next to it lay the foot of another animal, but that one, blessedly, she did not recognize.

  Nauseated, she tore her eyes from the grisly objects, only to face an even more horrifying vision: above the altar, floating unsupported by anything she could see, was an inverted cross.

  From the cross was suspended a figure, held to it with a single spike piercing both feet, its head dangling down. Two more spikes pierced the figure's wrists, pinning them to the transverse of the cross.

  A great gash was torn in the figure's right side, and blood oozed from the wound. Blood, and something else as well.

  A squirming, roiling mass of maggots, erupting from the great wound.

  At last her eyes fastened on the figure's face, and her screams built until her own voice filled the vast space, then buffeted back at her, perverted into taunting laughter. For it was her own features she beheld above the altar, twisted in anguish, blood dripping down the planes of her face to mat her hair.

  She felt the pain now. Her feet and wrists throbbed with agony, and the wound, churning with the ravenous maggots, burned unbearably in her side. She could feel the heat of blood streaming from the gash, and her nostrils filled with its coppery odor. She tried to take a step forward, collapsed to her knees and screamed again as her bloodied hands struck the floor.

  Drugs!

  That was it! Somehow, she had to have been drugged. But even that made no sense, for she could remember everything perfectly clearly, from the moment Ted came home last night.

  Their lovemaking.

  Falling asleep in his arms.

  Waking up, filled with a sense of well-being and contentment.

  She'd eaten nothing—drunk nothing.

  Then how...? But the question was never completed, for even as it formed, two new figures appeared. Although their backs were toward her, she recognized them immediately.

  Her husband.

  And her son.

  Together, they placed a bundle on the altar, something she couldn't quite see, for i
t was wrapped in some kind of animal skin.

  A skin covered with golden fur.

  Then, even before realizing what the skin must be, she knew with terrible certainty what was inside it.

  "Molly!" she screamed.

  Ignoring the agony in her feet and wrists, Janet raced toward the grotesque altar. From out of nowhere, a terrible peal of laughter rolled over her, and both Ted and Jared turned to gaze at her.

  Ted raised his finger to point at her, and she felt a stab of heat lash into her, as if she'd been struck by a laser. Still she lurched toward the altar, her arms outstretched, her baby daughter's name shrieking from her lips. "Molly ... Molly ... Molly ... Molly..."

  The howls of mocking laughter swelled, and over and over again she felt the whiplike flick of the unseen force emanating from Ted's hand. Then, when she was still ten yards from the altar, Ted spoke.

  "Stop her!"

  Jared, a glittering dagger clutched in his right hand, started toward his mother.

  CHAPTER 38

  Father MacNeill held Kim's hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. He could still see the terror that had taken root inside her, but now there was something else as well: a look of resolve was displacing the fear. As they stood in front of the house, the girl's determination was overcoming the paralyzing panic that had overpowered her in the biology lab at school. "You can do it, Kimberley," he said quietly. "Just remember, your aunt was right. The cross will protect you. You're going to see more frightening things than you can even imagine, but as long as you wear the cross, you will be safe. Do you understand that?"

  Kim hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding. Safe, she whispered to herself. The word had become a mantra, which she kept silently repeating as her fingers constantly went to the cross suspended from her neck on the thin gold chain: Safe ... Safe ... Safe... But what if the chain broke? What if the cross fell away and—

  "Kim ... Kiiimmmmm..."

  Jared's voice again! But it sounded weaker, as if he were sinking farther into the depths she'd seen in her dreams, sinking beyond her reach. "Now," she whispered, almost as much to herself as to the two priests who flanked her. Leaving them on the sidewalk, she started toward the house.