John Saul - Black Creek Crossing

Again the belt buckle swung all the way around and ripped into Blake, this time catching him in the right eye.

Another howl of agony erupted from his throat, and he hurled himself at Seth, still trying to lash out with the belt.

As if seized by some invisible power, Blake crashed face first against the wall, grunted, and sank to his knees as blood began to gush from his nose. For a moment it seemed he might slide to the floor, but then he gathered his strength and heaved himself back to his feet just as the door flew open.

Jane Baker, her face ashen and clutching a fireplace poker in one hand, gazed at her bleeding husband. “Seth!” she screamed. “What are you—”

Seth whirled around. “Go away!” he yelled. “Just leave us alone!”

But it was too late. Blake lurched toward Seth once more, the belt raised high again. But at the last moment he veered off toward his wife. Instinctively, Jane Baker raised her arms to fend off her husband’s careening body, but it was too late. His full weight crashed against her, and she uttered a muffled grunt as the spur of the poker plunged deep into her own neck. A second later blood began to ooze from the wound. With a look of something akin to surprise in her eyes, she reached out to brace herself against the wall, and the poker fell from her neck, clattering to the floor.

Blake, stunned at the sight of the wound in his wife’s throat, let the belt fall to his side and took a step toward her.

The color already fading from her face, Jane Baker slowly sank to the floor, blood now spurting from the deep puncture in her throat. As the reality of what was happening to her slowly sank in, she gazed up at her husband. Her mouth worked, but instead of sound only blood bubbled from her lips.

Paralyzed by what he was seeing, Blake stared down at Jane, his own face going pale as the geyser of blood from his wife’s punctured aorta began to slow and the last of the color drained from her face. As the gush slowed to a trickle, her body slumped to one side, her head lolling back so the wound the poker had opened gaped lewdly.

As the realization of what he’d done sank in, Blake came back to life. Straightening, he tightened his grip on the belt once more, and wheeled around to face Seth. Blood was still streaming from his nose and his wounded eye, but now his rage overwhelmed the agony of his own wounds. “You killed her!” he bellowed. “God damn you, you—” The belt raised high, he charged at Seth.

And at the last instant, as the belt buckle slashed toward him, Seth stepped aside.

His father lumbered past him, staggered through the open door of Seth’s room, and lurched against the banister over the stairwell. Losing his balance, he pitched forward. For a second or two he seemed almost to hover in midair, his free hand flailing wildly in search of something to hang onto. Then he tilted forward and, just before he fell, his fingers found the banister. But it was too late. Slippery with his own blood, his fingers lost their grasp and he pitched headfirst to the floor below. His single brief howl of shock and terror was cut off as his head struck the limestone floor of the foyer.

As the silence that fell over the house stretched from seconds into minutes, Seth Baker gazed at his mother. Finally, he went over to kneel beside her. Reaching out, he gently touched her cheek. “You never stopped him,” he whispered. “You just let him do it.”

Then he stood, left his room, and gazed down at the floor below. His father’s body lay facedown on the blood-smeared limestone, and Seth could tell by the angle of his father’s head — and the stillness of his body — that he was dead too.

At last he turned away, went down the same stairs he’d come up only a short while ago, left the house by the back door, and walked away into the darkness of the night.

YRA SULLIVAN HAD THOUGHT THE DAY WOULD never end. She could barely believe it when Phil Lambert told her that no one had seen Angel since lunchtime. Afterward, she’d gone straight home, certain that Angel would be there. Father Mulroney went with her, and insisted on coming into the house. When they found no sign of Angel, he hadn’t wanted to leave her alone.

“Not in this storm,” he’d said, and though he tried to pretend that he was only worried that the electricity might go out, she knew right away that there was more to it than that. She’d seen it in his eyes as they flicked around the rooms of her house as if looking for something he knew was there even though he couldn’t see it. She heard it in the hollowness of his voice as well, as he made the explanation she hadn’t believed. Not that she wanted to stay in the house by herself — not after the terrible stories Father Mulroney had told her, and the strange things she’d seen in that house.

So she went back to the church with Father Mulroney, and spent the afternoon repeating her prayers again and again, and telling herself over and over again that the things Father Mulroney had told her couldn’t possibly be true. Yet as the storm raged outside and she stayed on her knees in front of the altar, her fingers moving over the rosary beads in perfect unison with the silent rhythms of the prayers she repeated, she could not banish the memories of the strange things that had happened in her house and the strange vision she’d seen.

The vision of the girl dressed in black, the way Angel had been dressed when she left the house this morning.

It had been a vision — she knew that. But not the same kind of vision she sometimes had when, after long hours of praying, she caught glimpses of the Holy Mother in the curling smoke of the votive candles, or in the rippling surface of the holy water as she dipped her fingers in the font. The Holy Mother was real — as real as she herself.

And those visions had comforted her.

The black-clad figure had not comforted her at all. Indeed, even its memory filled her with the kind of chill she could only think of as coming from death itself.

So she’d prayed.

And finally the storm had ended.

And still she prayed, until now her knees were so stiff and sore, she could barely stand up, no trace of daylight was visible through the stained-glass windows, and the candles she’d lit hours earlier had burned to little more than flickering stubs.

Leaving the church at last, Myra made her way home through the darkness. She was late, and she knew Marty would be angry, but even the thought of his fury didn’t quicken her step. Indeed, as she left the town behind and started out on Black Creek Road, the closer she came to the house at the Crossing, the slower were the steps she took. When she came around the bend in the road and could finally make out the shape of the house silhouetted against the night sky, she stopped walking entirely.

And gazed through the darkness at the house.

And knew there was a reason why her steps had slowed.

It wasn’t just the things Father Mulroney had told her, or the recollection of the things she’d seen, or the uneasiness she’d felt in the emptiness of the house a few hours ago. No, this time it was different.

This time the house wasn’t empty.

And something was wrong.

Part of Myra wanted to turn away and go back to town, back to the church, back to Father Mulroney.

But instead she made herself go on.

Marty Sullivan wasn’t sure when the voice had started whispering again. He was slouched low in the chair in front of the television, but he’d long since stopped watching its flickering images or listening to its droning sound.