John Saul - Comes the Blind Fury

Carson stared up at Corinne. She was standing in front of his desk, her back stiff as a ramrod, her expression intense. He began to reach out to her, to comfort her, but before he was halfway out of his chair, she had turned and fled.

Slowly, Josiah sat down. He sat by himself for a long time. It wasn’t going right, none of it. He hadn’t meant for Susan Peterson to die. It should have been Michelle — it should have been Cal Pendleton’s daughter. A life for a life, a child for a child. But not one of his children.

All he could do now was wait. Sooner or later, as it always had, the tragedy would come back to the house, and whoever was living there. And when it did, and the house had avenged Alan Hanley for him, it would be over. Then he could go away and forget Paradise Point forever. He poured himself another shot of bourbon and stared out the window. In the distance he could see the churning waters of Devil’s Passage. It was, he thought, aptly named. How long had it been since the devil had come to live with the Carsons? And now, after all the years, the last Carson was going to use the devil. It was, Josiah Carson thought, somehow poetic.

He only hoped that not too many of his own children — the village children — would have to die in the process.

Late that afternoon, Michelle made her way to the old graveyard. She lowered herself clumsily to the ground near the odd memorial to Amanda and waited, sure that her friend would come to her. But before the now familiar grayness could close in around her, she felt someone watching her. She turned and recognized Lisa Hartwick standing a few yards away from her, staring at her.

“Are you all right?” Lisa asked.

Michelle nodded, and Lisa took a tentative step toward her.

“I–I was looking for you,” Lisa said. She looked almost frightened, and Michelle wondered what was wrong.

“For me? How come?” She started to get up.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Michelle regarded Lisa suspiciously. No one liked Lisa — everyone said she was a brat. What did she want? Was she going to tease her? But Lisa came closer and sat down next to her. Gratefully, Michelle let herself sink back to the soft earth.

“Is it true you’re adopted?” Lisa suddenly asked.

“So what?”

“I’m not sure,” Lisa replied. Then: “My mother died five years ago.”

Now Michelle was puzzled. Why had she said that? Was she trying to make friends with her? Why?

“I don’t know what happened to my parents,” she ventured. “Maybe they’re dead. Or maybe they just didn’t want me.”

“My father doesn’t want me,” Lisa said quietly.

“How do you know?” Michelle let herself relax: Lisa wasn’t going to tease her.

“He’s in love with your teacher. Ever since he met her, he’s liked her more than he likes me.”

Michelle thought this over. Maybe Lisa was right. Maybe things had happened for her the same way they had happened for Michelle when Jenny had been born. “Sometimes I don’t think anybody likes me,” she said.

“I know. Nobody likes me, either.”

“Maybe we could be friends,” Michelle suggested. Now Lisa’s eyes seemed to cloud over.

“I don’t know. I–I’ve heard things about you.”

Michelle tensed. “What kind of things?”

“Well, that ever since you fell off the bluff, something’s been wrong with you.”

“I’m lame,” Michelle said. “Everybody knows that.”

“That’s not what I mean. I heard — well, they say you think you saw the ghost.”

Michelle relaxed again. “You mean Amanda? She’s not a ghost. She’s my friend.”

“What do you mean?” Lisa asked. “There isn’t anybody around here named Amanda.”

“There is, too,” Michelle insisted. “She’s my friend.” Suddenly Lisa stood up and began backing away from Michelle. “Where are you going?”

“I–I have to go home now,” Lisa said nervously.

Michelle struggled to her feet, her eyes fixed angrily on Lisa. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

Lisa shook her head uncertainly.

Suddenly the fog was starting to close in around Michelle. From far away, she could hear Amanda calling to her.

“I’m not crazy,” she said to Lisa, her voice desperate. “Amanda’s real , and she’s coming now. You can meet her!”

But Lisa still backed away from her. Just before the gray mists surrounded her, Michelle saw her turn and begin running.

As Susan Peterson had run.

They held Susan Peterson’s funeral on Saturday.

Estelle Peterson sat in the front pew of the Methodist Church, her head bowed, her fingers twisting compulsively at a limp handkerchief. Susan’s coffin was only a few feet away, banked with flowers, its lid propped open. Next to Estelle, Henry stared stoically ahead, his eyes fixed on a spot high above the coffin, his face carefully impassive.

A low murmuring began moving slowly through the congregation. Estelle tried to ignore it, but when she heard Constance Benson’s voice cut through the unintelligible sounds, she finally turned around.

Michelle Pendleton, wearing a black dress and leaning heavily on her cane, was making her way slowly down the aisle. Behind her were her parents, with June carrying the baby. For a split second, Estelle’s eyes met June’s. Estelle quickly looked away. Again, she heard Constance Benson’s voice.

“Of all the places for them to turn up …” she began, but Bertha Carstairs, sitting next to her, jabbed her with an elbow, and Constance subsided. As the Pendletons seated themselves in a pew halfway between the door and the altar, the service for Susan Peterson began.

Michelle could feel the hostility around her.

It was as if every eye in the church was on her, watching her, accusing her. She wanted to leave, but knew that she wouldn’t be able to. If only she weren’t crippled — if only she could get up and slip quietly out. But if she tried, things would only be worse. Her cane, tap-tapping along the hardwood floor, would echo through the church, and the minister would stop his prayers, and then they would all stare at her openly. At least while she sat still they tried to pretend they weren’t watching her, even though she knew they were.

June, too, had to force herself to sit still, to keep her face impassive, to endure the endess service. It had been a mistake, coming to the funeral. If Cal hadn’t insisted, she would never have come. She had argued with him, but it hadn’t done any good. He had stonily insisted that Michelle had had nothing to do with Susan’s death; therefore, there was no reason for them not to go to the funeral. June had tried to reason with him, had tried to make him see that it would be hard for Michelle, miserably hard, for her to sit in the church, surrounded by all the children who had been her friends, and listen to the service. Couldn’t Cal see that? Didn’t he understand that it didn’t matter that Michelle had done nothing to Susan? It was what people thought that counted.

But Cal would not be budged. And so they had come. June had heard Constance Benson, and she was sure that Michelle had heard her, as well. She had seen the look in Estelle Peterson’s eyes — the look of hurt, and accusation, and bewilderment.

Finally, the service came to an end. The congregation stood as the casket was borne slowly down the aisle, followed by Estelle and Henry Peterson. As they passed the Pendletons, Henry glared at Cal, his eyes hard and challenging, and Cal felt a tightening in his stomach. Maybe , he thought, June was right — maybe we shouldn’t have come . But then, as the pews began emptying into the aisle, Bertha Carstairs stopped and took his hand.