John Saul - Nathaniel

And they said that sometimes, when the weather was stormy and the grass was high, you could still see Abby, late at night, out in the field, looking for her children…

Michael stared up at his grandfather, his blue eyes wide and frightened. "That-that's not a true story, is it Grandpa?"

"Of course it isn't," Janet quickly replied. "It's a horrible story, and I wish we hadn't heard it." She turned to Amos, her face pale. "My God, Amos, how could you tell a story like that to a little boy?"

Amos Hall shrugged. "If he hadn't heard it from me, he'd have heard it from someone else. It's been around for years, and it never changes much."

"But surely no one believes it?"

"About Abby? I don't suppose anybody knows the full truth about her and her kids, but it's probably close to the truth. Things like that used to happen around here. Like I said, the prairie would get to people, and they'd just crack up. It could have happened to Abby that winter-"

"No more," Janet pleaded. "I don't want to hear any more about it. I meant the last part, about her son still wandering around and people still seeing her out in the field. Surely no one believes that, do they?"

"I don't know," Amos replied. "Who knows what people see? But I can tell you, people around here tend to be pretty careful about their kids, particularly during summer. But of course, that's only common sense. We get tornadoes during the summer, and they can be nasty. Get caught out in a tornado, and you just have to trust to luck." He stood up, stretching. "Anyway, that's the story. You can believe it or not, as you see fit." He turned to Michael. "And as for you, it's time you were in bed."

Michael got slowly to his feet and kissed his mother goodnight, then his grandmother. He started out of the little parlor, but then turned back.

"Grandpa? What was the name of Abby's son?"

"Nathaniel," Amos told him. "His name was Nathaniel."

Michael climbed up the stairs and went to his room, then undressed and slid into bed. A few minutes later he turned off the light to lie in the darkness and stare out the window into the night. Far away across the field, he could see a shape moving through the moonlight. He knew it was the dog, the dog who had saved him from the pigs, then waited for him all day, wagging his tail fiercely when he caught sight of Michael, and not seeming to mind when he had not been allowed inside the house. But he was still there, like a shadow in the night, patrolling the fields while Michael slept.

That's what I'll name him, Michael thought. Shadow. His name will be Shadow.

But as he drifted off into sleep, it was another name that kept echoing in his ears.

Nathaniel…

"You guys ever hear of somebody named Nathaniel?" Michael's voice betrayed none of the tension he had been feeling as he helped with the painting of the house the next day, glancing only occasionally westward toward Findley's barn. Now, in the bright spring sunshine, the crumbling barn's fascination seemed to have lessened, and Michael had begun to wonder if the sensation of its calling to him-or of something inside it calling to him-had been nothing more than his imagination. But that name kept coming back to him. Nathaniel.

The name he had heard whispered in the barn; the name his grandfather had used last night.

So now, as he diligently helped Ryan Shields and Eric Simpson apply an uneven coat of not-quite-white paint to his bedroom walls, he tried to ask his question with a nonchalance he wasn't feeling.

"Nathaniel?" Ryan repeated. "Where'd you hear about him?"

"Grandpa."

"The story about the kid who killed his mother?"

Michael nodded, and put down his brush. "Is it true?"

Ryan shrugged. "I guess so. Except the part about the ghosts of Nathaniel and Abby still hanging around here."

"That's just a story they told us to keep us from shagging out at night."

"My dad told it to me," Eric offered. "I was only a little kid, but it gave me nightmares."

"How do you know it's not true?"

Ryan gave him a scathing look. "Come on. It's just a ghost story." Then, seeing the look of uncertainty that clouded Michael's expression, he grinned. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"

Michael hesitated only a split second. "Hell, no." He picked up the brush once more and began applying more paint to the wall, covering up the thin patches but leaving a series of brush marks. Eric watched him for a moment, then shook his head in disgust.

"You sure don't know much about painting, do you? I bet your mom makes you do that over again." He dipped his roller into the tray of paint, and began going over the area Michael had just done.

"Did Grandpa tell about the knocking at the door, and that weird man all covered with snow?" Ryan asked. "That was the scariest part."

Michael nodded, but Eric looked perplexed. "What man? All I ever heard was that every time Abby ran out of food, she cooked one of her children and fed it to the rest of them."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed. "But Grandpa says she never even knew what she'd done. She always thought a man came for the kids. That's why she's supposed to still be out looking for them."

"Can you believe that?" Eric asked. "Who'd ever believe a story like that?"

"Well, we did," Ryan said, reddening slightly.

"Yeah, but that was when we were little," Eric declared. "I figured out the ghost part of it was just a story when I was ten."

"Sure," Ryan teased. "That's why you're always the one that chickens out when someone wants to sneak into Findley's barn in the middle of the night."

Now it was Eric's turn to redden, but he made an attempt at a recovery. "That place is dangerous. It's gonna fall down any day now."

"You've been saying that since you were ten, too." Ryan deliberately ran a paint roller over Eric's hand. "Oops."

"Cut that out," Eric yelped. "It is gonna fall down!" He shook his own roller at Ryan, spattering paint across his friend's face.

Ryan only grinned. "Seems like one of us is still pretty clean, doesn't it?" he said.

Eric nodded, and the two of them turned on Michael.

In seconds the scuffle degenerated into chaos. The sides constantly changed, until all three of them were covered with paint, along with the ceiling, the walls, the floor, and the window. That portion of the window, at any rate, that was closed. Too late, they noticed that the upper section of the casement had been lowered, and the battlefield had not contained the ammunition. And they only noticed that when they became aware of Janet Hall standing in the doorway, her expression of fury carefully masking her urge to laugh.

"What's going on here?"

"Nothing." Though the reply had come from Michael, it was nearly simultaneously echoed by Ryan and Eric.

"Nothing," Janet repeated, her expression darkening.

Michael stooped down to pick up a rag. "I guess we better get it cleaned up before it dries," he mumbled.

"And you'd better get yourselves cleaned up, too," Janet told them. "You can use sandpaper on the floor, and a scraper on the window, but if you don't get that paint out of your hair, it's going to have to be cut off. Now get into the bathroom-all of you-and get those clothes off. Put them in the tub and let them soak. Then get yourselves into the shower-"

"But there's no hot water!" Michael protested.

Janet allowed herself a faintly malicious smile. "You should have thought of that before you started all this. Now get to it. By the time you're done, I'll have clean clothes for you. Lord knows if they'll fit anyone but Eric, but they'll be here."

Eric's eyes widened apprehensively. "You're not gonna tell my mom-" he began, but Janet cut him off.

"Your mother already knows. She was standing right under that window, helping your mother-" she turned her gaze to Ryan, "-paint the shutters downstairs."