He got to his feet, staring around, bewildered, wondering what had happened to him. . . or if anything had happened to him. Already it had begun to seem like a dream.
Then, from the deep woods behind the deadfall, woods so deep that the light looked green and tarnished even on the brightest days, a low, chuckling laugh arose. The sound was huge. Steve
could not even begin to imagine what sort of creature could have made such a sound.
He ran, one shoe off and one shoe on, trying to shriek but unable.
He was still running when he reached Louis’s house, and still trying to shriek when he finally got his bike started and slued out onto Route 15. He very nearly sideswiped an arriving fire engine from Brewer. Inside his Bell helmet, his hair was standing on end.
By the time he got back to his apartment in Orono, he could not precisely remember having gone to Ludlow at all. He called in sick at the infirmary, took a pill, and went to bed.
Steve Masterton never really remembered that day. . . except in deep dreams, those that come in the small hours of the morning.
And in these dreams he would sense that something huge had shrugged by him—something which had reached out to touch him.
. . and had then withdrawn its inhuman hand at the very last second.
Something with great yellow eyes which gleamed like foglamps.
Steve sometimes awoke shrieking from these dreams, his eyes wide and bulging, and he would think: You think you are screaming, but it’s only the sound of the loons, down south, in Prospect. The sound carries. It’s funny.
But he did not know, could not remember, what such a thought might mean. The following year he took a job halfway across the country, in St. Louis.
In the time between his last sight of Louis Creed and his departure for the Midwest, Steve never went into the town of Ludlow again.
EPILOGUE
The police came late that afternoon. They asked questions but voiced no suspicions. The ashes were still hot; they had not yet been raked. Louis answered their questions. They seemed satisfied.
They spoke outside and he wore a hat. That was good. If they had seen his gray hair, they might have asked more questions. That would have been bad. He wore his gardening gloves, and that was good too. His hands were bloody and ruined.
He played solitaire that night until long after midnight.
He was just dealing a fresh hand when he heard the back door open.
What you buy is what you own, and sooner or later what you own will come back to you, Louis Creed thought.
He did not turn around but only looked at his cards as the slow, gritting footsteps approached. He saw the queen of spades. He put his hand on it.
The steps ended directly behind him.
Silence.
A cold hand fell on Louis’s shoulder. Rachel’s voice was grating, full of dirt.
“Darling,” it said.
—February 1979—December 1982