Nightshade

Hadn’t told her, or couldn’t remember?

Now, with the news still droning in the background, she tried to convince herself that she’d imagined it, that there was no reason for Matt to hide anything from her. As the soft note of the clock’s chime faded away, she told herself that it would be all right — if Kelly weren’t home already, certainly she would turn up tomorrow. She reached for the phone, to call Nancy Conroe, but changed her mind before lifting the receiver. If Kelly had come home, she would have heard. Maybe not from Nancy or Gerry, but surely they would have called Dan Pullman and he would have called her. And the last thing she needed tonight was to hear Gerry accusing her son. Turning off the television and the lights, she went through the downstairs once more, checking the windows and doors.

Checking them against what?

In all the years she’d lived in this house, even though it stood alone, surrounded by the forest, she had never felt frightened. Yet tonight, as she moved from room to room, she felt uneasy.

Exposed.

As if there were someone — or something — lurking in the darkness outside.

Looking in at her.

Watching her.

There’s nothing, she told herself. There’s never been anything out there to worry about, and there still isn’t! Yet as she turned off the last light, plunging the downstairs into a darkness that no eye could penetrate from outside the house, the uneasiness refused to leave her, and as she started up the stairs, it grew worse.

She paused at the top of the stairs, listening.

All around her the old house creaked and groaned.

Like it always does, she reminded herself. Nothing’s different tonight.

Nothing!

She started toward her own room, but paused at the door to Cynthia’s room. Though it was closed, she could almost feel a presence behind it.

Her sister’s presence? Of course not — her sister was dead!

But she’d heard her sister’s voice, heard her laughter.

Seen her.

Memories, she reminded herself. The voices and laughter she’d heard were nothing but memories! And it’s not Cynthia’s room! It’s a guest room. My guest room! But still, her hand closed on the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

Joan stood just outside the doorway, staring into the darkness at her sister’s dimly perceived things. But they weren’t her sister’s, not anymore. Her sister was dead, and the dead couldn’t own anything. But as her eyes fell on the shadowed portrait of Cynthia, she heard her sister’s voice, as she had before.

“They’re still mine, Joan. Everything you have is mine.”

“No,” Joan whispered, unaware that she’d spoken aloud.

“It is, Joan. You know it is. I’m taking it back, Joan. I’m taking it all back!”

“It’s not true,” Joan whispered, snapping on the light and scanning the clutter in the room.

The pictures on the walls.

The makeup on the vanity.

The small bottle of Nightshade, its powerful scent hanging in the air, even though its stopper was in place.

Junk, Joan told herself. It’s nothing but junk, and tomorrow — first thing — she would rid herself of it all, empty the room of everything that reminded her of Cynthia, get it all out of the house.

Get it out, and burn it.

That was it — she’d take all her sister’s things, along with all the terrible memories they were kindling, and burn them in the old incinerator behind the carriage house.

Her hand still gripping the doorknob, she scanned all her sister’s belongings once more, but now she saw them in flames, the dresses burning on the hangers, smoke curling from the robe that lay across the chair next to the bed, the makeup on the vanity charring into gray ash. Just the vision of it in her imagination added to her resolve, and she pulled the door closed, turning her back on the room.

Ten minutes later she was in her bed, the lights off, the door closed, the window open to let in the cold autumn air and the sounds of the night. For a few minutes she lay awake, her eyes open in the darkness. The house creaked around her; she could hear the breeze soughing through the trees beyond the window. For a moment she felt the comfort she’d always felt in this bed, in this room, in this house.

She was almost able to convince herself that in a moment the door would open and Bill would come into the room, and a moment or two after that slip into the bed beside her and take her in his arms. Then reality crept in.

Nothing in her life would ever be as it had been only a week ago. Everything had changed — everything had been shattered. And there was nothing she could do — nothing anyone could do — to put it back together again. Her eyes stung with tears, but she refused to give in to them.

Matt, she thought. I still have Matt. Forcing herself to turn away from her grief, her worries, and her fears, she conjured an image of her son — her perfect son who, no matter what anyone else thought or said, could never have done any of the things of which he was being accused. Not Matt.

Not her perfect Matt.

Clinging to the thoughts — and to the image — Joan finally drifted into sleep.

* * *

WHEN SHE AWOKE again, the blackness of the night still surrounded her, but its sounds — the faint murmuring of birds and insects, the soft whisper of the wind, even the familiar creaking of the house — had fallen silent.

Then, as the silence seemed to close around her, she felt it.

She was no longer alone in the room.

But that wasn’t possible — of course she was alone. Who would have come in? The doors and windows downstairs were all locked — she’d checked them herself.

But as she tried to reassure herself, her heart began to race. She could hear it throbbing in the silence, feel it pounding in her chest.

And whatever had crept into her room drew nearer.

Matt! It had to be Matt!

“Matt?” she whispered, her voice preternaturally loud in the silence. “Is that you?”

It was as the echo of her words died away that she heard it.

Laughter.

Cynthia’s laughter, barely audible, but coming from everywhere. Everywhere and nowhere.

She tried to reach for the light, but it was as if her limbs had frozen, and she lay helplessly where she was, unable to move.

The presence was close to her now. She could feel it all around her, reaching out to her, groping for her in the darkness.

Her skin tingled with anticipation, and her body grew moist with a sheen of sweat. Then she felt it.

The first caress was feather light, almost as if she hadn’t been touched at all. But then she felt it again, this time like the touch of a lover’s fingers, stroking her limbs, tracing strange patterns on her skin.

Hands were moving over her, exploring her.

“No,” she whimpered. “Don’t… please don’t…”

She squirmed, writhing her body in an effort to escape the strange sensations, but no matter how she moved, the touch followed her. Followed her, and found her, reaching deeper and deeper within her.

“No,” she whispered again. “No… oh, please, no…” But it was too late. Whatever had come for her, whatever had her in its embrace, held her firmly in its grip, and she knew there was no escape. Now a new