What the Night Knows (with bonus novella Darkness Under the Sun)

As this was the most recently interred of his discoveries, the scraps of clothing not yet dissolved were larger and retained more color than those in other graves. He recognized the dress that his mother had been wearing the last day he had seen her.

The boy stood over this discovery for a while, considering his life in the guest house with his mother, comparing it to his life in the tower after she apparently abandoned him.

Long ago the owls had moved on to feed in moonlit fields, and the surrounding forest seemed to be asleep and dreaming.

The lantern hissed as if calling serpents to it, and the mantles—incombustible little bags filled with gaslight—pulsed softly.

The boy did not tremble, although he watched his shadow shiver slightly across the stunted grass and the excavated earth of the secret graveyard.

The light played masquerade with his deformed shoulders and with his misshapen head, costuming his shadow in a robe and cowl. When he lifted the pick, the shadow appeared to lift a scythe.

The boy wasn’t the goat-legged, horned god of anything, as once he wished to be. He was Death, and just being Death might be a most satisfying life.

38

RETURNING HOME AT 2:46 A.M., JOHN USED HIS CELL PHONE to call the home-security computer and switch off the alarm as he arrived at his garage door.

When he got out of the car in that subterranean space, the house still felt free of the oppressive presence that for weeks had been in residence. But with the Woburn family dead, the hateful spirit would soon find its way back here.

Spirit. He arrived at his conclusion logically, and the evidence of its accuracy appeared irrefutable now. Yet sometimes he rebelled against it. Spirit. Ghost. He wanted to think of it in other terms. Corruption. Infection. Disease. Or turn to psychologists for answers that would persuade him to deny what he knew to be true.

And that was the most remarkable thing about this rebellion: A part of him would have preferred the comfort of psychiatric theory and jargon to the truth, not only because the truth put before him an enemy who might be impossible to defeat, but also because truth in this instance was an embarrassment to the modern mind. In this age, faith remained acceptable, but recognizing a dark supernatural aspect to life could make a rational man feel foolish and gullible. The Evil of all evils thrived on the denial of its existence.

The last time he tried Scotch to settle his nerves, the night of the first day that he had gone to the state hospital to see Billy Lucas, the whiskey had not helped him. Nevertheless, he went up to the kitchen and poured a double shot over ice. His hand shook, and the neck of the Chivas bottle rattled against the rim of the glass.

In thirty-three days, another family would be destroyed. There was no way to determine the target or in what person the spirit would be concealed when it attacked.

Brenda Woburn felt it trying to take possession of her. Cold and crawling, slithering … Everywhere in my body … Skin to bones. She had been able to resist it—but only by extreme measures.

Evidently, the spirit had been unable to invade either Lenny or Davinia. Otherwise, it would have used one of the kids against the other, probably Lenny against his sister.

The factor that inoculated for possession was not youth. Billy Lucas had been only fourteen but vulnerable.

John doubted that Lenny’s limited mental capacity vaccinated him against possession. Davinia was highly intelligent—yet inaccessible.

Not having met the boy, having spoken with the girl too briefly, John did not know what qualities brother and sister had in common. He suspected innocence must be one. The girl seemed exceptional, gentle, kind. Perhaps the boy had been equally so.

With his Scotch, John walked the perimeter of the ground floor. He stood at windows in dark or dimly lighted rooms, searching the night, though he knew that he would find nothing suspicious. No more killing for a while. No killing here for the next sixty-five days.

Yet the compulsion to patrol was irresistible. He would be a watchdog for the rest of his life, as he had been since the night that, because of his foolishness, he facilitated the massacre of his family. His penance was eternal vigilance; never again would he know the peace of the blameless.

Minette, Naomi, and Zach seemed innocent to John, basically good kids, not morally immaculate but free from serious weaknesses. He not only loved his children, he was also proud of them. He could never credit the possibility that any of them might be a glove to hide the hand of Alton Turner Blackwood.

Perhaps no adult was innocent. But Nicolette was as virtuous as anyone he knew, charitable and kind. She was strong enough and tough-minded enough to be as resistant to possession as Brenda Woburn.

The weakest link in the Calvino chain was John himself. That assessment seemed to him as true as it was terrifying.

In the kitchen again, he poured two more ounces of Scotch.

Between leaving St. Christopher’s Home and School when he was seventeen and meeting Nicky a year later, he had spent a few months drinking most lunches and dinners: Seagram’s shooters chased with beer, an efficient route to oblivion. Without the emotional support of the staff at the school, without family or friends, he turned to the kind of spiritualism in which the spirits came in bottles sealed with tax stamps. He had an inheritance—his parents’ life-insurance, equity from the house—but it seemed like blood money. He saw an ironic kind of justice in spending it on his self-destruction, glass by glass. He wasn’t old enough to buy his own poison, but there were hobos to buy it as his agents, for a generous commission. He called them his kindly executioners, and if they had been able to purchase cyanide, he might have added it to the shopping list he gave them.

Fortunately, he made a lousy drunk because he had no practice at it and no heart for it. Oblivion was not as easy to attain as he expected. Drunk, he became grotesquely melancholy, more focused on his loss than when sober. Shooters and beer proved to be not a fast track away from memory but instead a direct route to the obsessive and vivid recollection of every wrenching experience he wanted to erase from his mind.

Alone in his apartment, in the depths of intoxication, whether sitting at the kitchen table or collapsed in a living-room recliner, he became garrulous, talking to beloved ghosts and to himself. At a certain point, when the floor ceased to be safely horizontal, when it canted like the deck of a ship, when the shapes of things no longer appeared to be right—walls curving inward toward the top, ceiling swelling down like a distended belly—and when the tall curved spout at the kitchen sink seemed as sinister as a cobra poised to strike, young John talked to God.

He perceived these monologues as rants of theological genius, as challenges to the wisdom of the Maker of the universe, as brilliant prosecutorials that demolished the very concept of a benign Creator, as jeremiads so logically argued that God could make no satisfactory response.

One night, although he was no less drunk than usual, he suddenly heard himself as an impartial witness might have heard him, and he was humiliated not only by the mush-mouthed and rambling nature of his screed but also by the sophomoric character of his arguments and accusations. He put a hand to his mouth to silence himself, but the hand fell away from his lips in an angry gesture. He kept talking, now with even less intelligence and coherence. His rant became so tedious, repetitious, and petty that his humiliation thickened into mortification. Yet still he chattered on, as though his tongue owed no obedience to him; he could not halt the insane gush of words. In every expression of grief, he heard a total self-absorption that made him cringe. In every whiny lament, he recognized the voice of a self-pitying wretch. Every tiresome accusation revealed the immaturity of a useless boy who lacked the courage to accept the blame for his own actions, who did not possess the fortitude to carry his guilt like a man.

When mortification deepened into shame, he finally found the will to shut off the torrent of words. He lurched to his feet and staggered to the bathroom, where he knelt at the toilet. Instead of words, vomit gushed forth, such a hideous stream that the next day he remembered it had been black, although surely it