Rob Zombie - Lords of Salem

It was cold, though. Herman was right: this time of year was hell. You could never tell if it was going to be cold or warm and no matter how you dressed it was usually wrong. Her faux fur coat was helpful, but she was still cold. She’d be chilled by the time she got home.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her earbuds, put them in, then plugged the cord into her iPod. When she pressed PLAY it random-shuffled her to a How to Learn French album that she didn’t even know she had on her iPod and she thought, Why not? Here I am, walking through the streets of Salem, learning how to speak French, improving myself, taking control of my life. What could make for a better evening?

“How much do I owe you?” a Frenchman asked her. “Combien est-ce que je vous dois?”

“Combien est-ce que je vous dois?” Heidi repeated absently, her mind already starting to wander.

“Could you speak more slowly?” asked the Frenchman, and for a moment she had the impression that the tape was speaking directly to her. Then he continued: “Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?”

“Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement?” she repeated.

And then she suddenly realized where the album was from, that Griff had downloaded it to her computer a few years back. The idea had been that they’d get clean, listen to it, learn French, then go to Europe together, a good vacation, just the two of them. But when it came down to it, neither of them ever had any money, and they’d never gotten around to listening to the album. Griff talked about it for a while, and then he stopped, and then he was dead. Leaving only her. She was lucky to be alive, she knew, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty.

She shivered and skipped to the next track, which turned out to be a Tom Waits song about Suffolk’s red barn murder. Better. It didn’t have any memories associated with it.

It was fucking cold, her fingers and wrists aching, her breath clouding up in front of her. She was about halfway home, maybe a bit more, and was just passing the big red double doors of Saint Peter’s church. They had been left slightly ajar, a light shining inside. Surely the priest wouldn’t mind if she just went inside for a moment to warm up.

She slipped quickly in. The light that was on was just inside the doors, the main light for the vestibule. The rest of the church, though, seemed dark. She could see the vague outlines of the pews and the aisle, the ghost of the lectern and altar at the front, but very little else. Probably the door had been left open by accident and nobody was meant to be there. That was okay; she wouldn’t stay long. She’d just warm up for a few minutes and then she’d be on her way.

She slipped out her earbuds—it seemed disrespectful to be listening to a song about a murder while standing in a church—and began to chafe her hands. They were already feeling a little better. Combien est-ce que je vous dois , she thought. How much do I owe you? And felt again a little stab of guilt.

She stood there a moment, and then suddenly realized she was hearing something. It was soft, almost inaudible, a sort of low mumbling sound. And then she realized it had been there ever since she’d taken out her earbuds.

She peered out in the darkened church. It seemed to be coming from there, somewhere in the pews. Mice, maybe? Or rats? No, it wasn’t quite that, but something different. More like someone whispering.

Curious, she took a step forward, out of the entranceway, through the pillars, and into the church proper. She felt suddenly vulnerable, knowing she must be outlined against the light behind her, and she stopped for a moment and listened. No, the sound hadn’t stopped. It was still there, and sounded all the more like someone whispering.

When she moved forward it was while trying to be as silent as possible. She moved down the aisle slowly, trying to follow the sound. Just a few pews up, the sound no longer seemed to be coming from in front of her but more from one side. She eased her way into the pew, began making her way down the row.

The sound grew louder and louder. Yes, definitely voices. Why would they be hiding in the dark, though?

She almost didn’t see them until she was right on top of them. They were dressed in black, faded into the darkness, and if they hadn’t been whispering she might have walked right smack dab into them. As it was, her foot scraped and they heard her coming and stopped talking, rapidly turning to face her. Then she saw the white fabric around their faces and the faces themselves. Very hard to see, but from what she could make out in the darkness they looked really old.

“Oh hey, sisters,” said Heidi. “Sorry. I didn’t see you. Was just looking for a place to warm up from the cold.”

The two nuns regarded her without saying anything. Just stared.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said.

“You’re not disturbing us,” said the first, in a creaky old voice.

“No, you’re not disturbing us,” said the other. “We were expecting you.”

The first elbowed her.

“Expecting me,” said Heidi. “How could you be?”

“She doesn’t mean that,” said the first. “We were expecting someone, but not you. How could we be expecting you?”

“Yes,” said the second, her eyes shining in the dark. “How could we be?”

“Um,” said Heidi. “I’m warm now. I probably should go.”

She turned and started back down the pew.

“Wait,” said the second nun. “What fragrance do you wear?”

“Fragrance?” said Heidi. “Perfume, you mean? No, I’m not wearing anything.”

“But you smell so good,” said the second nun. “Almost good enough to eat.”

“Sister,” said the first nun. “Think before you speak.”

“Well,” said Heidi quickly, “I should go.”

She almost ran the rest of the way to the doors of the church and was only really comfortable once she was outside, in the cold again. So much for a good night’s sleep , thought Heidi. Shaking her head, she hurried the rest of the way home.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Her fingers were aching by the time she reached her front door. First it was hard to get her keys out and then, once they were out, to make her fingers find the right one and get the door open. She checked for mail, and then headed for the stairs.

Lacy’s door was wide open, light spilling out into the hallway. The sound of voices and scattered laughter came from inside. She groaned—last thing she wanted tonight was company. She’d have to go past on her way to the stairs. She’d just go quickly and quietly, she told herself, and hopefully not be seen.

She was halfway past when she risked a glance in. Lacy was there, a glass in her hand, sitting in a high-backed chair that looked almost like a throne. She was rapt, her attention turned to a sharp-nosed woman, with a huge, tangled mass of brightly dyed red hair, around Lacy’s age, sixty or so, who was speaking. On the other side of her was a cute, perky woman with short, choppy blond hair, maybe a little younger. The latter turned and looked straight at her, and smiled.

Heidi hurried past. She’d put her first foot on the step when she heard Lacy’s voice ring out.

“Heidi!” she called. “Come meet my sisters.”

Heidi took a deep breath. Last thing she needed was a landlady who wanted to be her friend, too. She gathered herself and returned to the door. She put on a fake smile, poked her head around the door frame, and waved.

“This is Megan,” said Lacy, gesturing to the woman with red hair. “And this is Sonny,” she said, gesturing to the blonde. Funny, thought Heidi, they didn’t look like Lacy’s sisters. She couldn’t see much family resemblance. Maybe Lacy was adopted?