Heather Graham - The Presence

Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

“An incredible storyteller.”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham does a great job of blending

just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

—Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

“A fast-paced and suspenseful read

that will give readers chills while

keeping them guessing until the end.”

—RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon

“There are good reasons for Graham’s

steady standing as a bestselling author.

Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city

is especially poignant.”

—Booklist on Ghost Walk

“Graham’s latest is nerve-racking in the extreme,

solidly plotted and peppered with

welcome hints of black humor. And the ending’s

all readers could hope for.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Last Noel

“[A] spooky post-Katrina mystery … Dream

messages and premonitions, ghostly sightings,

capable detective work and fascinating characters

blend to make a satisfying chiller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Deadly Night

“Mystery, sex, paranormal events.

What’s not to love?”

—Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer

Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

GHOST MOON

GHOST NIGHT

GHOST SHADOW

THE KILLING EDGE

NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

UNHALLOWED GROUND

DUST TO DUST

NIGHTWALKER

DEADLY GIFT

DEADLY HARVEST

DEADLY NIGHT

THE DEATH DEALER

THE LAST NOEL

THE SÉANCE

BLOOD RED

THE DEAD ROOM

KISS OF DARKNESS

THE VISION

THE ISLAND

GHOST WALK

KILLING KELLY

THE PRESENCE

DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PICTURE ME DEAD

HAUNTED

HURRICANE BAY

A SEASON OF MIRACLES

NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

EYES OF FIRE

SLOW BURN

NIGHT HEAT

the

PRESENCE

HEATHER

GRAHAM

www.mira.co.uk

For Rich Devin, Lance Taubald, Leslie and

Leland Burbank, Connie Perry, Jo Carol,

Peggy McMillan, Sharon Spiak,

Sue-Ellen Wellfonder, Kathryn Falk and Rubin,

with much love—and to great memories of

streams and castles in Scotland.

Nightmares

The scream rose and echoed in the night with a bloodcurdling resonance that only the truly young, and truly terrified, could create.

Her parents ran into the room, called by instinct to battle whatever force had brought about such absolute horror in their beloved child.

Yet there was nothing. Nothing but their nine-year-old, standing on the bed, arms locked at her side, fingers curled into her fists with a terrible rigidity, as if she had suddenly become an old woman. She was screaming, the sound coming again and again, high, screeching, tearing, like the sound of fingernails dragged down the length of a blackboard.

Both parents looked desperately around the room, then their eyes met.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart!”

Her mother came for her unnoticed and tried to take the girl into her arms, but she was inflexible. The father came forward, calling her name, taking her and then shaking her. Once again, she gave no notice.

Then she went down. She simply crumpled into a heap in the center of the bed. Again the parents looked at one another, then the mother rushed forward, sweeping the girl into her arms, cradling her to her breast. “Sweetie, please, please …! ”

Blue eyes, the color of a soft summer sky, opened to hers. They were filled with angelic innocence. The child’s head was haloed by her wealth of white-blond hair, and she smiled sleepily at the sight of her mother’s face, as if nothing had happened, as if the bone-jarring sounds had never come from her lips.

“Did you have a nightmare?” her mother asked anxiously.

Then a troubled frown knit her brow. “No!” she whispered, and the sky-blue eyes darkened, the fragile little body began to shake.

The mother looked at her husband, shaking her head. “We’ve got to call the doctor.”

“It’s two in the morning. She’s had a nightmare.”

“We need to call someone.”

“No,” her father said firmly. “We need to tuck her back into bed and discuss it in the morning.”

“But—”

“If we call the doctor, we’ll be referred to the emergency room. And if we go to the emergency room, we’ll sit there for hours, and they’ll tell us to take her to a shrink in the morning.”

“Donald!”

“It’s true, Ellen, and you know it.” Ellen looked down. Her daughter was staring at her with huge eyes, shaking now. “The police!” she whispered. “The police?” Ellen asked.

“I saw him, Mommy. I saw what that awful man did to the lady.”

“What lady, darling?”

“She was on the street, stopping cars. She had big red hair and a short silver skirt. The man stopped for her in a red car with no top, like Uncle Ted’s. She got in with him and he drove and then … and then …”

Donald walked across the room and took hold of his daughter’s shoulders. “Stop this! You’re lying. You haven’t been out of this room!”

Ellen shoved her husband away. “Stop it! She’s terrified as it is.”

“And she wants us to call the police? Our only child will wind up on the front page of the papers, and if they don’t catch this psycho murdering women, he’ll come after her! No, Ellen.”

“Maybe they can catch him,” Ellen suggested softly.

“You have to forget it!” Donald said sternly to his daughter.

She nodded gravely, then shook her head. “I have to tell it!” she whispered.

Ellen seldom argued with Donald. But tonight she had picked her battle.

“When this happens … you have to let her talk.”

“No police!” Donald insisted.

“I’ll call Adam.”

“That shyster!”

“He’s no shyster and you know it.”

Donald’s eyes slid from his wife’s to those of his daughter, which were awash in misery and a fear she shouldn’t have to know. “Call the man,” he said.

* * *

He was very old; that was Toni’s first opinion of Adam Harrison. His face was long, his body was thin, and his hair was snow-white. But his eyes were the kindest, most knowing, she had seen in her nine years on earth.

He came to the bedside, took her hand, clasped it firmly between his own and smiled slowly. She had been shaking, but his gentle hold eased the trembling from her, just as it warmed her. He was very special. He understood that she had seen what she had seen without ever leaving the house. And she knew, of course, that it was ridiculous. Such things didn’t happen. But it had happened.

She hated it. Loathed it. And she understood her father’s concern. It was a very bad thing. People would make fun of her—or they would want to use her ability for their own purposes.

“So, tell me about it,” Adam said to her, after he had explained that he was an old friend of her mother’s family.

“I saw it,” she whispered, and the shaking began again.

“Tell me what you saw.”

“There was a woman on the street, trying to get cars to stop. One stopped. She leaned into it, and she started to talk to the man about money. Then she went with him. She got into the car. It was red.”

“It was a convertible?”

“Like Uncle Ted’s car.”