“I saw Miriam Shelling tonight.”
Rebecca relaxed. “Did she come back to the gallery?”
“She was on the beach when I came home. Sitting on a piece of driftwood, staring out at the sea.”
“Lots of people do that,” Rebecca said. She rummaged through her sewing box, searching for a button. “I do that myself and so do you. It’s one of the joys of living out here.”
“She said she was waiting for something. It was weird.”
“Waiting for what?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure she knew herself. But she said a big storm was coming and told me to be careful.”
“That makes sense,” Rebecca said. “Did she say anything else?”
“No.” There was a long pause, then: “Maybe we ought to give it up.”
Rebecca put down her sewing and stared at Glen. “Now you are sounding like I did yesterday. But you’ll get over it, just like I did.” Then she chuckled softly. “You know what? While you were busily getting yourself into a funk today, I was getting out of mine. I decided I really love this place. I love living near the water and the forest, I love the peace and quiet, and I love what’s happening to my children, especially Robby. So you might as well get yourself into a better frame of mind, my love, because I’ve decided that no matter what happens, I’m going to see things through right here. And so are you.”
Glen Palmer looked at his wife with loving eyes and thanked God for her strength. As long as I have her, he thought, I’ll be fine. As long as I have her.
And then a premonition struck him, and he knew that he wouldn’t always have Rebecca, wouldn’t have her nearly long enough. He rose from his chair, crossed the small room, and knelt by his wife. He put his arms around her and held her tightly and tried to keep from crying. Rebecca, unaware of the emotions that were surging through her husband, continued sewing.
Harney Whalen stretched, snapped the television set on, then wandered over to the window before he sat down to watch the nine o’clock movie. His house, the house he had been born in and had grown up in and would undoubtedly die in, sat on a knoll that commanded a beautiful view of Clark’s Harbor and the ocean beyond. He watched the lights of the town as they twinkled on around the bay, then looked up at the starless night sky. A layer of clouds had closed in and the feel of the air told him that another storm was brewing. Harney hated the storms and sometimes wondered why he stayed on the peninsula. But it was home, and even though he’d never appreciated the weather, he’d learned to live with it Still, he began his usual round of the house, checking that all the windows were tightly closed against whatever might be coming in from the sea.
His grandfather had built the house, and he’d built it well. It had stood against the Northeasters for more than a century, and its joints were as snug as ever, its foundation maintaining a perfect level. Only the roof ever demanded Harney’s attention, and that only rarely. He wandered from room to room, not really seeing the furnishings that filled them but feeling their comforting presence, and wondering idly what it would be like to be one of those people who spent their lives like gypsies, wandering from one residence to another, never really putting down roots anywhere. Well, it wasn’t for him. He liked knowing that his past was always around him. Even though he lived by himself in the house now, he wasn’t really alone — his family was all around him and he never felt lonesome here.
He made a sandwich, then opened a can of beer to wash it down with. By the time he returned to the living room, the movie had begun, and he sat down to munch his sandwich contentedly and enjoy the film.
Sometime during a barrage of commercials he felt the uneasiness begin, and he glanced around the room as if half-expecting someone to be there. He noticed then that the wind had come up and left his chair to go again to the window. It had begun raining and the water on the glass made the lights of Clark’s Harbor appear streaked and blurred. Harney Whalen shook his head and returned to his chair in front of the television set.
He tried to concentrate on the movie, but more and more he found himself listening to the wind as it grasped at the house. Each time he realized he didn’t know what was happening on the television screen, he snapped himself alert and forced his attention back to it.
The storm grew.
Just before the end of the movie Harney Whalen felt a nerve in his cheek begin to twitch and wondered if he was going to have one of what he called his “spells.” A moment later, as he was about to put the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth, his face suddenly contorted into an ugly grimace and his hands began twitching spasmodically. The scrap of sandwich fell to the floor beside his chair, and Harney Whalen stood up.
Robby and Missy lay awake in their bunks, listening to the rain splash against the window.
“You want to go look for him, don’t you?” Missy suddenly whispered in the darkness, a note almost of reproach coloring her voice.
“Who?” Robby asked.
“Snooker.”
“He’s out there, isn’t he?”
“Could we find him?”
“Sure,” Robby said with an assurance he didn’t feel.
“But what about the ghosts?”
“There isn’t any such thing.” Robby climbed down from the top bunk and sat on his sister’s bed. “You didn’t believe that old man, did you?”
Missy squirmed and avoided looking at her brother. “Why would he lie?”
“Grown-ups lie to children all the time, to make us do what they want us to.”
Missy looked fearfully at her brother. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that “Let’s go to sleep.”
Robby ignored her and started dressing. Missy watched him for a moment, then she, too, began pulling her clothes on, all the time wishing she were still in bed. But when Robby opened the window and crept out, Missy followed him.
As soon as they were on the beach Missy thought she saw something, but it was too dark to be sure. It was a shape, large and dark against the heaving ocean, that seemed to be moving near the surf line, dancing almost, but without a pattern. She clutched Robby’s hand.
“Look,” she whispered.
Robby peered into the darkness. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”
“Over there,” Missy hissed. “Right near the water.” She pushed up against Robby, squeezing his hand so hard it hurt.
“Let go,” Robby commanded, but the pressure remained.
“Let’s go into the woods,” Missy begged. “It’ll be safer there.”
Robby hesitated, then decided to go along with his sister; if Snooker was anywhere around, he was likely to be in the woods. They were creeping over the barrier of driftwood when Missy suddenly yanked on Robby’s arm.
“Something’s happening,” she whispered. “Let’s hide!”
Robby stiffened, then made himself look around, but there was nothing. Only the blackness of the night and the noise of the wind and surf, building on each other into a steady roar. Still, when Missy tugged on his arm again, he let himself be pulled down into the shelter of a log.
* * *
A few yards away Miriam Shelling stirred slightly, a strange sensation forcing itself into her consciousness. Her fingers were tingling and her hair seemed to stand on end, as if charged with static electricity. She stared blankly into the night, her confused mind trying to match the eerie feeling with the terrifying images she saw on the beach. Strangers, strangers with odd, dead-looking eyes, their faces frozen in silent agony, their arms raised, their hands reaching, clutching at something Miriam couldn’t see.
She rose and began walking across the beach, drawn to the eerie tableau by a force beyond her control.
Missy peered fearfully over the top of the log, her eyes wide and unblinking.
There were several shapes on the beach now, but they were all indistinct — all except one, which moved outward toward the ocean slowly, steadily. Missy wanted to call out into the darkness, to disturb the strange scene that seemed to be unfolding silently in the maelstrom of noise that filled the night. But she couldn’t find her voice, couldn’t bring herself to cry out Instead, transfixed, she watched as the strange forms, the forms that seemed to
