“Seth’s not like that,” Angel had insisted, shaking her head. “He’s not a boyfriend — he’s just a friend!”
“All boys want the same thing,” her mother had said darkly, and Angel had rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should talk to Father Mike,” Myra had suggested.
“Why?” Angel shot back. “It’s not like I have anything to confess!”
“Don’t take that tone, young lady,” Myra snapped, and that had been the end of the conversation.
They’d driven the rest of the way home in silence, and remained silent as Angel disappeared into her room without so much as a “Good night.”
Myra went to bed, but hadn’t slept for more than a few minutes, and every time she did, the strange spectral figure she’d seen in the living room that afternoon appeared in her dreams, the knife dripping blood held aloft, the empty eyes of the fleshless skull staring at her.
But of course it hadn’t happened — it had just been a cat, and the rest of it was simply her imagination.
Except that Myra had never had much of an imagination. Even as a child, she was never frightened by the fairy tales her father read her, because she always knew they were only stories and nothing in them was real.
And she’d never dreamed either — at least nothing she could ever remember.
Still, by the time dawn broke, she convinced herself that she couldn’t have seen the black-clad figure, and by the time she got downstairs to fix breakfast, she’d managed to dismiss the dreams as well.
Then she saw Marty.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion was pasty, and his jowls were covered with stubble.
And the wound — the terrible slash that had run from just beneath his right eye all the way down to his jaw — was gone. But that was impossible! It had to be there — she’d seen it! She’d helped him clean it up, washed the blood away, put iodine on it—
As if sensing her presence, Marty raised his head. “What are you staring at?” he growled.
“The — The cut,” Myra stammered. “Where the cat—”
Marty’s eyes darkened with anger. “Goddamned animal…” he began, raising his right hand to touch his cheek. As his fingers touched his flesh, his lips and his eyes widened. Frowning, he rose to his feet, swayed unsteadily as his hangover threatened to overwhelm him, then lurched toward the mirror that hung in the hall. A few seconds later he was back, leaning heavily against the door frame, his complexion ashen. “I saw it,” he whispered. “You saw it… ” His voice grew louder. “It happened, goddammit! We both saw it!”
All Myra could do was nod mutely.
Nod, cross herself, and whisper a nearly inaudible prayer.
Two hours later, as Father Mulroney began chanting the benediction, Myra uttered another silent prayer, this time begging forgiveness for having been unable to concentrate on the mass. Angel was fidgeting next to her, and as Father Mulroney’s voice died away and the rest of the congregation stood and began to exit, Myra laid a hand on her daughter’s arm to keep her in her place. Then, while the little church quickly emptied, Myra continued to pray.
Only when the last sounds of shuffling feet and murmuring voices were gone did she stand, move into the aisle, genuflect before the cross one last time, and lead Angel out into the morning sunlight. Just as she’d hoped, Father Mulroney was still on the steps of the church, bidding farewell to the last parishioner. He turned to Myra with his hand extended and a warm smile lighting his face, but seeing the expression in her eyes, his smile faded.
“Myra?” he said uncertainly. “Is anything wrong?”
Myra shook her head so slightly the gesture was almost invisible. But she’d already made up her mind that she had to tell the priest what had happened yesterday, and she wasn’t about to turn back now. “Can I talk to you for a few moments?” she said softly. Her eyes flicked toward Angel so briefly that the priest almost missed it, but then he too nodded.
“Of course. Why don’t we go into the vestry?” Without waiting for a reply, he led Myra back into the church, down the aisle, then around the altar to the cramped room that served as office, vestry, sacristy, and storeroom. “What is it?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the look of disapproval from Myra as he shed his clerical robes in favor of the comfort of his favorite corduroy jacket.
Slowly, knowing how strange and impossible the story sounded, Myra did her best to tell him exactly what had happened yesterday afternoon, sparing none of the details, not even how much Marty had been drinking. The priest listened in silence until she was finished, then frowned thoughtfully.
“You’re absolutely sure there was a cut on your husband’s cheek?”
“Blood was running down his face,” Myra replied. “If you don’t believe me, ask Angel — she saw it too. I’m not lying, Father!”
“I’m not doubting that you think you saw exactly what you’ve told me,” Father Mulroney assured her. “But if the cut healed overnight—”
“Not just healed,” Myra interrupted. “It’s as if it had never happened at all. It’s like—” She fell silent as she realized the word she’d been about to utter, but the priest picked up where she left off.
“Like a miracle?”
Myra shook her head. “It was more like a—” She’d been about to say “vision,” but stopped herself. She still hadn’t told Father Mulroney about the glimpses of the Holy Mother she’d had, and she didn’t want the priest to just pass her off as someone who sometimes “saw things.” She finally said, “I don’t know what it was like. I just don’t know.”
“Then perhaps you should just try to forget it,” the priest told her. “Some things we can understand, and some things we can’t. You were upset yesterday, and so was your daughter. Our emotions can play tricks on us, and make us think all kinds of terrible things.” He began leading Myra out of the vestry and back up the aisle toward the door. When they were outside the church once again, in the bright morning sunlight, he placed a gentle hand on Myra’s shoulder. “Try not to worry,” he said. “I’m sure everything will be all right — the saints will look after us.”
His eyes shifted to the crowd that had poured out of the Congregational church across the street, two or three of whom had been part of his own flock until recently. Even Angel Sullivan was over there, talking to Jane and Blake Baker’s son.
“Of course it would be nice,” he sighed, “if the saints could not just look after us, but send a few more people our way, but I suppose we must be content with what we have.” He winked at Myra. “But if I were you, I’d keep my eye on Angel before Seth Baker corrupts her completely.” As a shocked look came into Myra’s eye, he quickly backtracked. “It was a joke, Myra,” he assured her. “Even if he doesn’t go to my church, Seth is still one of the nicest boys in town. So stop worrying so much — everything will work out.”
But as Myra walked down the steps and started across the street to reclaim her daughter, Father Mulroney found his eyes wandering to the great tree in the cemetery across the street, which only the day before yesterday had twice been struck by lightning in a storm that came out of nowhere, then vanished as quickly as it had come.
And yesterday, in the house at Black Creek Crossing, a little girl all dressed in black had appeared for an instant.
A little girl, wielding a bloody knife.
Crossing himself, Father Michael Mulroney retreated back into his tiny church and began to pray.
The sun was just reaching its zenith as Angel and Seth climbed to the top of the shattered granite berm and looked down at the area of flat ground that fronted the single visible wall of the cabin. Neither of them was certain what to expect, but what they hadn’t expected was to find that nothing had changed.