John Saul - Nathaniel

"Where's Shadow?" he asked.

"Prowling," Janet told him. She sat on the edge of Michael's bed and took his hand. "I want to talk to you about something," she said.

Michael looked nervous, but didn't turn away. "A-about what I saw?"

Janet nodded. "And about what you said about that little girl-Becky-today. That you think someone killed her and buried her in Potter's Field. What made you say that, honey?"

Suddenly Michael's eyes filled with terror. "I-I can't tell you. I-I promised not to tell anybody."

"Not even me?"

Michael nervously twisted the bedcovers in his clenched fist.

"Please?"

"You won't tell anyone? Anyone at all?"

Sensing that her son's fright was genuine, Janet promised.

"I-I lied to you," Michael said at last, his voice quavering.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"I was scared."

"Of me?"

Michael shook his head.

"Of Grandpa?"

"I-I'm not sure. I guess so."

Janet reached out and gently removed the bedclothes from Michael's hand. "Why don't you tell me what really happened?"

Slowly, Michael began telling his mother as much as he could remember of what had happened that night.

"And on the way home, I saw something," he finished. "But it wasn't Abby."

"Then what was it?" Janet pressed.

"It was Nathaniel," Michael whispered. "I saw Nathaniel, and I talked to him, and I saw someone else, too, but I'm not sure who it was."

Janet swallowed. A knot of tension had formed in her stomach. "You saw Nathaniel, and you were talking to him," she repeated.

Michael hesitated, then nodded in the darkness.

"But Nathaniel's just like Abby. He doesn't exist, honey. He's only a ghost."

"Maybe-maybe he's not," Michael ventured. In his memory, Dr. Potter's words returned, the words with which he'd described Nathaniel: ' He looked like you, and he looked like your father …'

"All right," Janet said patiently, still unsure of exactly what Michael was trying to say. "Let's assume Nathaniel isn't a ghost. What did he say that scared you so much?"

Michael racked his brain, trying to remember what Nathaniel had said, the exact words. But they were gone; all that was left were the warnings. And a vague memory. "He-he said they'd brought us something. A-a baby."

"A baby ?" Janet repeated, unable to keep her incredulity out of her voice.

Again Michael nodded. "They were burying it out in the field."

Janet's heart began to pound. "What field?"

"The one down near the woods by the river. Potter's Field."

"And you think it was Aunt Laura's baby they were burying?"

Again, Michael's head bobbed.

Janet paused for a long time, then reached out and touched Michael's face, tipping his head so his eyes were clearly visible. "Michael, are you sure you saw any of this?"

"I-I think so."

"You think so. But you're not sure."

"Well-" Michael faltered, then backed off a little. "It was dark, and I couldn't see very well, except when Nathaniel was with me. Then I could see real good."

The knot in Janet's stomach tightened. What was he talking about now? "You could see in the dark when Nathaniel was with you?"

Michael nodded.

"All right," Janet told him. "Now, what about Becky?"

Michael squirmed. "I-I'm not sure. But I bet whoever she is, she's in Potter's Field, too."

"But we don't even know who she is."

Michael swallowed hard, then spoke in a whisper. "I don't care," Michael said, his voice reflecting his misery. "I bet they killed her, too."

Janet gathered her son into her arms. "Oh, Michael," she whispered. "What are you saying? Why are you saying these things?"

Michael met her gaze evenly. "Nathaniel," he said. "I'm only saying what Nathaniel told me."

"But sweetheart, Nathaniel doesn't exist. You only imagined all this."

Michael lay still for a long time, then slowly shook his head. "I didn't," he said softly. Then: "Did I?"

Outside, Shadow began barking.

That night, long after Michael had fallen asleep, Janet remained awake. She read the diary over and over, read all the entries, describing how Abby Randolph and her children had tried to survive the winter of 1884.

How the food had run out, and they had begun to starve.

How one of the children-the youngest-had gotten sick and finally died, and what Abby had done with its remains.

And then, one by one, the other children had died, but never again was there a mention of illness. And in the end, all of them were gone except Nathaniel, who, along with his mother, survived.

"… Better that some of us live than that all of us die …"

She went to bed finally, but didn't sleep. Instead she lay staring into the darkness, the words drumming in her mind. Perhaps, she told herself, it didn't mean anything. Perhaps it was nothing but the ravings of a woman driven mad by the loneliness of the long prairie winter. Or perhaps it had been written somewhere else, packed in the trunk for shipment, and never unpacked again.

Finally, near dawn, she drifted into half sleep, but even in her semiconscious state she could hear the name:

Nathaniel…

She shivered.

There could be no question of the roots of that terrible ghost story now, for she had found its confirmation. Inscribed on the flyleaf of the diary, barely discernible in faded pencil, was the proof: the name Abigail Randolph.

But why were Abby Randolph's things in this house? Who had put them there?

Michael wasn't sure what had awakened him. It might have been the headache that was playing around his temples-not really painful yet, but nevertheless there-or it might have been something else.

It might have been the dream. Though the dream was already fading from his memory as he lay in the darkness, a few fragments remained. His father. His father had been in the dream, and some of the dream had taken place in this room. It had started here, and it had ended here, but part of it had been in the room downstairs, the living room. But it hadn't looked like it did now, filled with packing crates and a few pieces of furniture. In the dream the furniture had been old-fashioned, and his father had been sitting on a sofa-one of those hard sofas with slippery upholstery like some of his parents' friends had in New York.

And his father had looked different. He'd looked young, like Nathaniel, but even though he'd looked like Nathaniel, Michael had known it was his father. And Michael hadn't been there. At least, he hadn't felt like he'd been there. Instead, he'd just been sort of watching, almost as if he was standing in a corner but nobody could see him.

But it had started in the bedroom, the room that had been his father's and was now his. His father had been in the room, working on one of his model airplanes, when suddenly the door had opened, and his grandfather had come into the room. Michael had known right away that Amos was mad at his father. He'd tried to tell his father, but he couldn't speak. He'd opened his mouth, but when he'd tried to speak, his throat had tightened, and nothing had come out. And the harder he tried, the tighter his throat got, till he could hardly breathe. And then his grandfather had hit his father. Suddenly there'd been a razor strop in his hand, and without saying a word, Amos had raised it up over his head and brought it slashing down onto his father's back. But his father hadn't screamed. Instead, while Michael watched, his father's eyes widened, and his body stiffened and arched away from the pain. His hands, which had been holding one wing of the model, tightened, crushing the balsa wood and tissue paper into a crumpled mass. Twice more the razor strop had lashed down, but still his father had said nothing. And then it was over, and suddenly-Michael's father was in the living room, sitting on the old-fashioned sofa, and though he couldn't hear anything, Michael knew that somewhere in the house, someone was screaming.