Bag of Bones 31 страница

“How bad is she? ” Rommie asked, hobbling over. His face was as white as paper. And before I could reply: “Oh Jesus. Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Blessed be the fruit of thy womb Jesus. Oh Mary born without sin, pray for us who have recourse to Thee. Oh no, oh Mike, no. ” He began again, this time lapsing into Lewiston street-French, what the old folks call La Parle. “Quit it, ” I said, and he did. It was as if he had only been waiting to be told. “Go inside and check on Kyra. Can you? ”

“Yes. ” He started toward the trailer, holding his leg and lurching along. With each lurch he gave a high yip of pain, but somehow he kept going. I could smell burning tufts of grass. I could smell electric rain on a rising wind. And under my hands I could feel the light spin of the drei-del slowing down as she went. I turned her over, held her in my arms, and rocked her back and forth. At Grace Baptist the minister was now reading Psalm 139 for Royce: If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me, even the night shall be light. The minister was reading and the Martians were listening. I rocked her back and forth in my arms under the black thunderheads. I was supposed to come to her that night, use the key under the pot and come to her. She had danced with the toes of her white sneakers on the red Frisbee, had danced like a wave on the ocean, and now she was dying in my arms while the grass burned in little clumps and the man who had fancied her as much as I had lay unconscious beside her, his right arm painted red from the short sleeve of his WE are THE CHAMPIONS tee-shirt all the way down to his bony, freckled wrist.

“Mattie, ” I said. “Mattie, Mattie, Mattie. ” I rocked her and smoothed my hand across her forehead, which on the right side was miraculously unsplattered by the blood that had drenched her. Her hair fell over the ruined left side of her face. “Mattie, ” I said. “Mattie, Mattie, oh Mattie. ” Lightning flashed—the first stroke I had seen. It lit the western sky in a bright blue arc. Mattie trembled strongly in my arms—all the way from neck to toes she trembled. Her lips pressed together. Her brow furrowed, as if in concentration. Her hand came up and seemed to grab for the back of my neck, as a person falling from a cliff may grasp blindly at anything to hold on just a little longer.

Then it fell away and lay limply on the grass, palm up. She trembled once more—the whole delicate weight of her trembled in my arms—and then she was still.

CHAPTER 5

After that I was mostly in the zone. I came out a few times—when that scratched-out scrap of genealogy fell from inside one of my old steno books, for instance—but those interludes were brief. In a way it was like my dream of Mattie, Jo, and Sara; in a way it was like the terrible fever I’d had as a child, when I’d almost died of the measles; mostly it was like nothing but itself. It was just the zone. I was feeling it. I wish to God I hadn’t been. George came over, herding the man in the blue mask ahead of him. George was limping now, and badly. I could smell hot oil and gasoline and burning tires. “Is she dead? ” George asked.

“Mattie? ”

“Yes. ”

“John? ”

“Don’t know, ” I said, and then John twitched and groaned. He was alive, but there was a lot of blood. “Mike, listen, ” George began, but before he could say more, a terrible liquid screaming began from the burning car in the ditch. It was the driver. He was cooking in there. The shooter started to turn that way, and George raised his gun. “Move and I’ll kill you. ”

“You can’t let him die like that, ” the shooter said from behind his mask. “You couldn’t let a dog die like that. ”

“He’s dead already, ” George said. “You couldn’t get within ten feet of that car unless you were in an asbestos suit. ” He reeled on his feet. His face was as white as the spot of whipped cream I’d wiped off the end of Ki’s nose. The shooter made as if to go for him and George brought the gun up higher.

“The next time you move, don’t stop, ” George said, “because I won’t.

Guaranteed. Now take that mask off. ”

“I’m done fucking with you, Jesse. Say hello to God. ” George pulled back the hammer of his revolver. The shooter said, “Jesus Christ, ” and yanked off his mask. It was George Footman. Not much surprise there. From behind him, the driver gave one more shriek from within the Ford fireball and then was silent. Smoke rose in black billows. More thunder roared. “Mike, go inside and find something to tie him with, ” George Kennedy said. “I can hold him another minute—two, if I have to—but I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. Look for strapping tape. That shit would hold Houdini. ” Footman stood where he was, looking from Kennedy to me and back to Kennedy again. Then he peered down at Highway 68, which was eerily deserted. Or perhaps it wasn’t so eerie, at that—the coming storms had been well forecast. The tourists and summer folk would be under cover. As for the locals. . . The locals were. . . sort of listening.

That was at least close. The minister was speaking about Royce Merrill, a life which had been long and fruitful, a man who had served his country in peace and in war, but the old-timers weren’t listening to him. They were listening to us, the way they had once gathered around the pickle barrel at the Lakeview General and listened to prizefights on the radio. Bill Dean was holding Yvette’s wrist so tightly his fingernails were white. He was hurting her. . . but she wasn’t complaining. She wanted him to hold onto her. Why? “Mike! ” George’s voice was perceptibly weaker. “Please, man, help me. This guy is dangerous. "

“Let me go, ” Footman said. “You’d better, don’t you think? ”

“In your wettest dreams, motherfuck, ” George said.

I got up, went past the pot with the key underneath, went up the cement-block steps. Lightning exploded across the sky, followed by a bellow of thunder.

Inside, Rommie was sitting in a chair at the kitchen table. His face was even whiter than George’s. “Kid’s okay, ” he said, forcing the words.

“But she looks like waking up. . . I can’t walk anymore. My ankle’s totally fucked. ”

I moved for the telephone.

“Don’t bother, ” Rommie said. His voice was harsh and trembling. “Tried it. Dead. Storm must already have hit some of the other towns. Killed some of the equipment. Christ, I never had anything hurt like this in my life. ”

I went to the drawers in the kitchen and began yanking them open one by one, looking for strapping tape, looking for clothesline, looking for any damned thing. If Kennedy passed out from blood-loss while I was in here, the other George would take his gun, kill him, and then kill John as he lay unconscious on the smoldering grass. With them taken care of, he’d come in here and shoot Rommie and me. He’d finish with Kyra. “No he won’t, ” I said. “He’ll leave her alive. ” And that might be even worse.

Silverware in the first drawer. Sandwich bags, garbage bags, and neatly banded stacks of grocery-store coupons in the second. Oven mitts and potholders in the third- “Mike, where’s my Mattie? ”

I turned, as guilty as a man who has been caught mixing illegal drugs.

Kyra stood at the living-room end of the hall with her hair falling around her sleep-flushed cheeks and her scrunchy hung over one wrist like a bracelet. Her eyes were wide and panicky. It wasn’t the shots that had awakened her, probably not even her mother’s scream. I had wakened her. My thoughts had wakened her.

In the instant I realized it I tried to shield them somehow, but I was too late. She had read me about Devore well enough to tell me not to think about sad stuff, and now she read what had happened to her mother before I could keep her out of my mind.

Her mouth dropped open. Her eyes widened. She shrieked as if her hand had been caught in a vise and ran for the door.

“No, Kyra, no! ” I sprinted across the kitchen, almost tripping over Rommie (he looked at me with the dim incomprehension of someone who is no longer completely conscious), and grabbed her just in time. As I did, I saw Buddy Jellison leaving Grace Baptist by a side door. Two of the men he had been smoking with went with him. Now I understood why Bill was holding so tightly to Yvette, and loved him for it—loved both of them. Something wanted him to go with Buddy and the others. . . but Bill wasn’t going.

Kyra struggled in my arms, making big convulsive thrusts at the door, gasping in breath and then screaming it out again. “Let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go, want to see Mommy, let me go—”

I called her name with the only voice I knew she would really hear, the one I could use only with her. She relaxed in my arms little by little, and turned to me. Her eyes were huge and confused and shining with tears. She looked at me a moment longer and then seemed to understand that she mustn’t go out. I put her down. She just stood there a moment, then backed up until her bottom was against the dishwasher. She slid down its smooth white front to the floor. Then she began to wail—the most awful sounds of grief I have ever heard. She understood completely, you see. I had to show her enough to keep her inside, I had to. . . and because we were in the zone together, I could.

Buddy and his friends were in a pickup truck headed this way. BAMM CONSTRUCTION, it said on the side.

“Mike! ” George cried. He sounded panicky. “You got to hurry! ”

“Hold on! ”

I called back. “Hold on, George! ”

Mattie and the others had started stacking picnic things beside the sink, but I’m almost positive that the stretch of Formica counter above the drawers had been clean and bare when I hurried after Kyra. Not now.

The yellow sugar cannister had been overturned. Written in the spilled sugar was this:

“No shit, ” I muttered, and checked the remaining drawers. No tape, no rope. Not even a lousy set of handcuffs, and in most well-equipped kitchens you can count on finding three or four. Then I had an idea and looked in the cabinet under the sink. When I went back out, our George was swaying on his feet and Footman was looking at him with a kind of predatory concentration. “Did you get some tape? ” George Kennedy asked.

“No, something better, ” I said. “Tell me, Footman, who actually paid you? Devore or Whitmore? Or don’t you know? ”

“Fuck you, ” he said. I had my right hand behind my back. Now I pointed down the hill with my left one and endeavored to look surprised. “What the hell’s Osgood doing?

Tell him to go away! ” Footman looked in that direction—it was instinctive—and I hit him in the back of the head with the Craftsman hammer I’d found in the toolbox under Mattie’s sink. The sound was horrible, the spray of blood erupting from the flying hair was horrible, but worst of all was the feeling of the skull giving way—a spongy collapse that came right up the handle and into my fingers. He went down like a sandbag, and I dropped the hammer, gagging. “Okay, ” George said.

“A little ugly, but probably the best thing you could have done under. . . under the. . . ” He didn’t go down like Footman—it was slower and more controlled, almost graceful—but he was just as out. I picked up the revolver, looked at it, then threw it into the woods across the road. A gun was nothing for me to have right now; it could only get me into more trouble. A couple of other men had also left the church; a carful of ladies in black dresses and veils, as well. I had to hurry on even faster. I unbuckled George’s pants and pulled them down. The bullet which had taken him in the leg had torn into his thigh, but the wound looked as if it was clotting. John’s upper arm was a different story—it was still pumping out blood in frightening quantities. I yanked his belt free and cinched it around his arm as tightly as I could. Then I slapped him across the face. His eyes opened and stared at me with a bleary lack of recognition. “Open your mouth, John! ” He only stared at me. I leaned down until our noses were almost touching and screamed, “OPEN YOUR MOUTH, / DO IT?

OW, /” He opened it like a kid when the nurse tells him just say aahh. I stuck the end of the belt between his teeth. “Close! ” He closed. “Now hold it, ” I said. “Even if you pass out, hold it. ” I didn’t have time to see if he was paying attention. I got to my feet and looked up as the whole world went glare-blue. For a second it was like being inside a neon sign. There was a black suspended river up there, roiling and coiling like a basket of snakes. I had never seen such a baleful sky. I dashed up the cement-block steps and into the trailer again. Rom-mie had slumped forward onto the table with his face in his folded arms. He would have looked like a kindergartner taking a timeout if not for the broken salad bowl and the bits of lettuce in his hair. Kyra still sat with her back to the dishwasher, weeping hysterically. I picked her up and realized that she had wet herself. “We have to go now, Ki. ”

“I want Mattie! I want Mommy! I want my Mattie, make her stop being hurt, /Make her stop being dead, /” I hurried across the trailer. On the way to the door I passed the end-table with the Mary Higgins Clark novel on it. I noticed the tangle of hair ribbons again—ribbons perhaps tried on before the party and then discarded in favor of the scrunchy. They were white with bright red edges. Pretty. I picked them up without stopping, stuffed them into a pants pocket, then switched Ki to my other arm. “I want Mattie! I want Mommy! Make her come back. /” She swatted at me, trying to make me stop, then began to buck and kick in my arms again.

She drummed her fists on the side of my head. “Put me down! Land me!

Land me! ”

“No, Kyra. ”

“Put me down! Land me, /Land me, /PUT ME DOWN, /” I was losing her. Then, as we came out onto the top step, she abruptly stopped struggling. “Give me Stricken! I want Stricken! ” At first I had no idea what she was talking about, but when I looked where she was pointing I understood. Lying on the walk not far from the pot with the key underneath it was the stuffed toy from Ki’s Happy Meal. Strickland had put in a fair amount of outside playtime from the look of him—the light-gray fur was now dark-gray with dust—but if the toy would calm her, I wanted her to have it. This was no time to worry about dirt and germs. “I’ll give you Strickland if you promise to close your eyes and not open them until I tell you. Will you promise? ”

“I promise, ” she said. She was trembling in my arms, and great globular tears—the kind you expect to see in fairy-tale books, never in real life—rose in her eyes and went spilling down her cheeks. I could smell burning grass and charred beefsteak. For one terrible moment I thought I was going to vomit, and then I got it under control. Ki closed her eyes.

Two more tears fell from them and onto my arm. They were hot. She held out one hand, groping. I went down the steps, got the dog, then hesitated. First the ribbons, now the dog. The ribbons were probably okay, but it seemed wrong to give her the dog and let her bring it along. It seemed wrong but. . . It’s gray, Irish, the UFO voice whispered.

IOU don’t need to worry about it because it’s gray. The stufd toy in your dream was black. I didn’t know exactly what the voice was talking about and had no time to care. I put the stuffed dog in Kyra’s open hand. She held it up to her face and kissed the dusty fur, her eyes still closed. “Maybe Stricken can make Mommy better, Mike. Stricken a magic dog. ”

“Just keep your eyes closed. Don’t open them until I say. ”

She put her face against my neck. I carried her across the yard and to my car that way. I put her on the passenger side of the front seat. She lay down with her arms over her head and the dirty stuffed dog clutched in one pudgy hand. I told her to stay just like that, lying down on the seat. She made no outward sign that she heard me, but I knew that she did. We had to hurry because the old-timers were coming. The old-timers wanted this business over, wanted this river to run into the sea. And there was only one place we could go, only one place where we might be safe, and that was Sara Laughs. But there was something I had to do first. I kept a blanket in the trunk, old but clean. I took it out, walked across the yard, and shook it down over Mattie Devote. The hump it made as it settled around her was pitifully slight. I looked around and saw John staring at me. His eyes were glassy with shock, but I thought maybe he was coming back. The belt was still clamped in his teeth; he looked like a junkie preparing to shoot up. “Iss ant eee, ” he said—This can’t be. I knew exactly how he felt. “There’ll be help here in just a few minutes. Hang in there. I have to go. ”

“Go air? ” I didn’t answer.

There wasn’t time. I stopped and took George Kennedy’s pulse. Slow but strong. Beside him, Footman was deep in unconsciousness, but muttering thickly. Nowhere near dead. It takes a lot to kill a daddy. The jerky wind blew the smoke from the overturned car in my direction, and now I could smell cooking flesh as well as barbecued steak. My stomach clenched again. I ran to the Chew, dropped behind the wheel, and backed out of the driveway. I took one more look—at the blanket-covered body, at the three knocked-over men, at the trailer with the line of black bulletholes wavering down its side and its door standing open. John was up on his good elbow, the end of the belt still clamped in his teeth, looking at me with uncomprehending eyes. Lightning flashed so brilliantly I tried to shield my eyes from it, although by the time my hand was up, the flash had gone and the day was as dark as late dusk.

“Stay down, Ki, ” I said. “Just like you are. ”

“I can’t hear you, ” she said in a voice so hoarse and choked with tears that I could barely make out the words. “Ki’s takin a nap wif Stricken. ”

“Okay, ” I said. “Good. ”

I drove past the burning Ford and down to the foot of the hill, where I stopped at the rusty bullet-pocked stop-sign. I looked right and saw the pickup truck parked on the shoulder. BAMM CONSTRUCTION on the side.

Three men crowded together in the cab, watching me. The one by the passenger window was Buddy Jellison; I could tell him by his hat. Very slowly and deliberately, I raised my right hand and gave them the finger. None of them responded and their stony faces didn’t change, but the pickup began to roll slowly toward me. I turned lift onto 68, heading for Sara Laughs under a black sky.

Two miles from where Lane Forty-two branches off the highway and winds west to the lake, there stood an old abandoned barn upon which ILFHEN one could still make out faded letters reading DONCASTER DAIRY. As we approached it, the whole eastern side of the sky lit up in a purple-white blister. I cried out, and the Chevy’s horn honked—by itself, I’m almost positive. A thorn of lightning grew from the bottom of that light-blister and struck the barn. For a moment it was still completely there, glowing like something radioactive, and then it spewed itself in all directions. I have never seen anything even remotely like it outside of a movie theater. The thunderclap which followed was like a bombshell. Kyra screamed and slid onto the floor on the passenger side of the car with her hands clapped to her ears. She still clutched the little stuffed dog in one of them. A minute later I topped Sugar Ridge.

Lane Forty-two splits left from the highway at the bottom of the ridge’s north slope. From the top I could see a wide swath of TR-90—woods and fields and barns and farms, even a darkling gleam from the lake. The sky was as black as coal dust, flashing almost constantly with internal lightnings. The air had a clear ochre glow. Every breath I took tasted like the shavings in a tinderbox. The topography beyond the ridge stood out with a surreal clarity I cannot forget. That sense of mystery swarmed my heart and mind, that sense of the world as thin skin over unknowable bones and gulfs. I glanced into the rearview mirror and saw that the pickup truck had been joined by two other cars, one with a V-plate that means the vehicle is registered to a combat veteran of the armed services. When I slowed down, they slowed down. When I sped up, they sped up. I doubted they would follow us any farther once I turned onto Lane Forty-two, however. “Ki? Are you okay? ”

“Sleepun, ” she said from the footwell. “Okay, ” I said, and started down the hill. I could just see the red bicycle reflectors marking my turn onto Forty-two when it began to hail—great big chunks of white ice that fell out of the sky, drummed on the roof like heavy fingers, and bounced off the hood.

They began to heap in the gutter where my windshield wipers hid. “What’s happening? ” Kyra cried. “It’s just hail, ” I said. “It can’t hurt us. ”

This was barely out of my mouth when a hailstone the size of a small lemon struck my side of the windshield and then bounced high into the air again, leaving a white II mark from which a number of short cracks radiated. Were John and George Kennedy lying helpless out in this? I turned my mind in that direction, but could sense nothing. When I made the left onto Lane Forty-two, it was hailing almost too hard to see. The wheelruts were heaped with ice.

The white faded out under the trees, though. I headed for that cover, flipping on my headlights as I went. They cut bright cones through the pelting hail. As we went into the trees, that purple-white blister glowed again, and my rearview mirror went too bright to look at. There was a rending, crackling crash. Kyra screamed again. I looked around and saw a huge old spruce toppling slowly across the lane, its ragged stump on fire. It carried the electrical lines with it. BIOCKED in, I thought.

This end, probably the other end, too. ’re here. For better or jor worse, we’re here. The trees grew over Lane Forty-two in a canopy except for where the road passed beside Tidwell’s Meadow. The sound of the hail in the woods was an immense splintery rattle. Trees were splintering, of course; it was the most damaging hail ever to fall in that part of the world, and although it spent itself in fifteen minutes, that was long enough to ruin a season’s worth of crops. Lightning flashed above us. I looked up and saw a large orange fireball being chased by a smaller one.

They ran through the trees to our left, setting fire to some of the high branches. We came briefly into the clear at Tidwell’s Meadow, and as we did the hail changed to torrential rain. I could not have continued driving if we hadn’t run back into the woods almost immediately, and as it was the canopy provided just enough cover so I could creep along, hunched over the wheel and peering into the silver curtain falling through the fan of my headlights. Thunder boomed constantly, and now the wind began to rise, rushing through the trees like a contentious voice.

Ahead of me, a leaf-heavy branch dropped into the road. I ran over it and listened to it thunk and scrape and roll against the Chevy’s undercarriage. Please, nothing bigger, I thought. . . or maybe I was praying. Please let me get to the house. Please let us get to the house.

By the time I reached the driveway the wind was howling a hurri cane.

The writhing trees and pelting rain made the entire world seem on the verge of wavering into insubstantial gruel. The driveway’s slope had turned into a river, but I nosed the Chevy down it with no hesitation—we couldn’t stay out here; if a big tree fell on the car, we’d be crushed like bugs in a Dixie cup.

I knew better than to use the brakes—the car would have heeled sideways and perhaps have been swept right down the slope toward the lake, rolling over and over as it went. Instead I dropped the transmission into low range, toed two notches into the emergency brake, and let the engine pull us down with the rain sheeting against the windshield and turning the log bulk of the house into a phantom. Incredibly, some of the lights were still on, shining like bathysphere portholes in nine feet of water. The generator was working, then. . . at least for the time being.

Lightning threw a lance across the lake, green-blue fire illuminating a black well of water with its surface lashed into surging whitecaps. One of the hundred-year-old pines which had stood to the left of the railroad-tie steps now lay with half its length in the water. Somewhere behind us another tree went over with a vast crash. Kyra covered her ears.

“It’s all right, honey, ” I said. “We’re here, we made it. ”

I turned off the engine and killed the lights. Without them I could see little; almost all the day had gone out of the day. I tried to open my door and at first couldn’t. I pushed harder and it not only opened, it was ripped right out of my hand. I got out and in a brilliant stroke of lightning saw Kyra crawling across the seat toward me, her face white with panic, her eyes huge and brimming with terror. My door swung back and hit me in the ass hard enough to hurt. I ignored it, gathered Ki into my arms, and turned with her. Cold rain drenched us both in an instant. Except it really wasn’t like rain at all; it was like stepping under a waterfall.

“My doggy! ” Ki shrieked. Shriek or not, I could hardly hear her. I could see her face, though, and her empty hands. “Stricken! I drop Stricken! ”

I looked around and yes, there he was, floating down the macadam of the driveway and past the stoop. A little farther on, the rushing water spilled off the paving and down the slope; if Strickland went with the flow, he’d probably end up in the woods somewhere. Or all the way down to the lake.

“Stricken! ” Ki sobbed. “My DOGGY! ”

Suddenly nothing mattered to either of us but that stupid stuffed toy. I chased down the driveway after it with Ki in my arms, oblivious of the rain and wind and brilliant flashes of lightning. And yet it was going to beat me to the slope—the water in which it was caught was running too fast for me to catch up.

What snagged it at the edge of the paving was a trio of sunflowers waving wildly in the wind. They looked like God-transported worshippers at a revival meeting: Is, Jeesus! Thankya Lawd! They also looked familiar. It was of course impossible that they should be the same three sunflowers which had been growing up through the boards of the stoop in my dream (and in the photograph Bill Dean had taken before I came back), and yet it was them; beyond doubt it was them. Three sunflowers like the three weird sisters in Macbeth, three sunflowers with faces like searchlights. I had come back to Sara Laughs; I was in the zone; I had returned to my dream and this time it had possessed me.

“Stricken! ” Ki bending and thrashing in my arms, both of us too slippery for safety. “Please, Mike, please! ”

Thunder exploded overhead like a basket of nitro. We both screamed. I dropped to one knee and snatched up the little stuffed dog. Kyra clutched it, covered it with frantic kisses. I lurched to my feet as another thunderclap sounded, this one seeming to run through the air like some crazy liquid bullwhip. I looked at the sunflowers, and they seemed to look back at me—Hello, Irish, it’s been a long time, what do you say? Then, resettling Ki in my arms as well as I could, I turned and slogged for the house. It wasn’t easy; the water in the driveway was now ankle-deep and full of melting hailstones. A branch flew past us and landed pretty much where I’d knelt to pick up Strickland. There was a crash and a series of thuds as a bigger branch struck the roof and went rolling down it.

I ran onto the back stoop, half-expecting the Shape to come rushing out to greet us, raising its baggy not-arms in gruesome good fellowship, but there was no Shape. There was only the storm, and that was enough.

Ki was clutching the dog tightly, and I saw with no surprise at all that its wetting, combined with the dirt from all those hours of outside play, had turned Strickland black. It was what I had seen in my dream after all.

Too late now. There was nowhere else to go, no other shelter from the storm. I opened the door and brought Kyra Devore inside Sara Laughs.

The central portion of Sara—the heart of the house—had stood for almost a hundred years and had seen its share of storms. The one that fell on the lakes region that July afternoon might have been the worst of them, but I knew as soon as we were inside, both of us gasping like people who have narrowly escaped drowning, that it would almost certainly withstand this one as well. The log walls were so thick it was almost like stepping into some sort of vault. The storm’s crash and bash became a noisy drone punctuated by thunderclaps and the occasional loud thud of a branch falling on the roof. Somewhere—in the basement, I guess—a door had come loose and was clapping back and forth. It sounded like a starter’s pistol. The kitchen window had been broken by the topple of a small tree. Its needly tip poked in over the stove, making shadows on the counter and the stove-burners as it swayed. I thought of breaking it off and decided not to. At least it was plugging the hole.

I carried Ki into the living room and we looked out at the lake, black water prinked up in surreal points under a black sky. Lightning flashed almost constantly, revealing a ring of woods that danced and swayed in a frenzy all around the lake. As solid as the house was, it was groaning deeply within itself as the wind pummelled it and tried to push it down the hill.

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