Phantoms

was waiting on the other side.

Following Jenny, Lisa said, “But the phone being out of order now… it's kind of strange, isn't it?”

“A little.”

Jenny half-expected to encounter a huge, grinning stranger with a knife. One of those sociopaths who seemed to be in such abundant supply these days. One of those Jack the Ripper imitators whose bloody handiwork kept the TV reporters supplied with grisly film for the six o'clock news.

She looked into the hall before venturing out there, prepared to jump back and slam the door if she saw anyone. It was deserted.

Glancing at Lisa, Jenny saw the girl had quickly grasped the situation.

They hurried along the hall toward the front of the house, and as they approached the stairs to the second floor, which lay just this side of the foyer, Jenny's nerves were wound tighter than ever. The killer — if there is a killer, she reminded herself exasperatedly — might be on the stairs, listening to them as they moved toward the front door. He might lunge down the steps as they passed him, a knife raised high in his hand…

But no one waited on the stairs.

Or in the foyer. Or on the front porch.

Outside, the twilight was fading rapidly into night. The remaining light was purplish, and shadows — a zombie army of them — were rising out of tens of thousands of places in which they had hidden from the sunlight. In ten minutes, it would be dark…

Chapter 4 The House Next Door

The Santinis' stone and redwood house was of more modern design than Jenny's place, all rounded corners and gentle angles. It thrust up from the stony soil, conforming to the contours of the slope, set against a backdrop of massive pines; it almost appeared to be a natural formation. Lights were on in a couple of the downstairs rooms.

The front door was ajar. Classical music was playing inside.

Jenny rang the bell and stepped back a few paces, where Lisa was waiting. She believed that the two of them ought to keep some distance between themselves and the Santinis; it was possible they had been contaminated merely by being in the kitchen with Mrs. Beck's corpse.

“Couldn't ask for better neighbors,” she told Lisa, wishing the hard, cold lump in her stomach would melt. “Nice people.”

No one responded to the doorbell.

Jenny stepped forward, pressed the button again, and returned to Lisa's side. “They own a ski shop and a gift store in town.”

The music swelled, faded, swelled. Beethoven.

“Maybe no one's home,” Lisa said.

“Must be someone here. The music, the lights…”

A sudden, sharp whirlwind churned under the porch roof, blades of air chopping up the strains of Beethoven, briefly transforming that sweet music into irritating, discordant sound.

Jenny pushed the door all the way open. A light was on in the study, to the left of the foyer. Milky luminescence spilled out of the open study doors, across the oak-floored foyer, to the brink of the dark living room.

“Angie? Vince?” Jenny called.

No answer.

Just Beethoven. The wind abated, and the torn music was knitted together again in the windless calm. The Third Symphony, Eroica.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

The symphony reached its stirring conclusion, and when the last note faded, no new music began. Apparently, the stereo had shut itself off. “Hello?”

Nothing. The night behind Jenny was silent, and the house before her was now silent, too.

“You aren't going in there?” Lisa asked anxiously.

Jenny glanced at the girl. “What's the matter?”

Lisa bit her lip. “Something's wrong. You feel it, too, don't you?”

Jenny hesitated. Reluctantly, she said, “Yes. I feel it, too.”

“It's as if… as if we're alone here… just you and me… and then again… not alone.”

Jenny did have the strangest feeling that they were being watched. She turned and studied the lawn and the shrubs, which had been almost completely swallowed by the darkness. She looked at each of the blank windows that faced onto the porch. There was light in the study, but the other windows were flat, black, and shiny. Someone could be standing just beyond any of those panes of glass, cloaked in shadow, seeing but unseen.

“Let's go, please,” Lisa said, “Let's get the police or somebody. Let's go now. Please.”

Jenny shook her head. “We're overwrought. Our imagination is getting the best of us. Anyway, I should take a look in there, just in case someone's hurt — Angie, Vince, maybe one of the kids…”

“Don't.” Lisa grabbed Jenny's arm, restraining her.

“I'm a doctor. I'm obligated to help.”

“But if you picked up a germ or something from Mrs. Beck, you might infect the Santinis. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, but maybe they're already dying of the same thing that killed Hilda. What then? They might need medical attention.”

“I don't think it's a disease,” Lisa said bleakly, echoing Jenny's own thoughts. “It's something worse.”

“What could be worse?”

“I don't know. But I… I feel it. Something worse.”

The wind rose up again and rustled the shrubs along the porch.

“Okay,” Jenny said, “You wait here while I go have a look.”

“No,” Lisa said quickly, “If you're going in there, so am I.”

“Honey, you wouldn't be flaking out on me if you—”

“I'm going,” the girl insisted, letting go of Jenny's arm. “Let's get it over with.”

They went into the house.

Standing in the foyer, Jenny looked through the open door on the left.

“Vince?”

Two lamps cast warm golden light into every corner of Vince Santini's study, but the room was deserted.

“Angie? Vince? Is anyone here?”

No sound disturbed the preternatural silence, although the darkness itself seemed somehow alert, watchful — as if it were a crouching animal.

To Jenny's right, the living room was draped with shadows as thick as densely woven black hunting. At the far end, a few splinters of light gleamed at the edges and at the bottom of a set of doors that closed off the dining room, but that meager glow did nothing to dispel the gloom on this side.

She found a wall switch that turned on a lamp, revealing the unoccupied living room.

“See,” Lisa said, “no one's home.”

“Let's have a look in the dining room.”

They crossed the living room, which was furnished with comfortable beige sofas and elegant, emerald-green Queen Anne wing chairs. The stereo phonograph and tape deck were nestled inconspicuously in a corner wall unit. That's where the music had been coming from; the Santinis had gone out and left it playing.