All of a sudden it stopped.
No one knew what, if anything, was being said, but the voice seemed to cut off in midsentence, and after such hyperactive gibbering the silence seemed heavy and ringing in Angela's ears.
"Show's over, folks!" Winston announced, still trying to keep the tone light. But no one was having any of it, and the residents drifted away, back to their rooms, quiet and subdued. Winston caught Angela's eye, and she understood now how shallow and cavalier she'd been earlier in the evening, how she'd completely misread the situation. She wished she'd stayed upstairs with Chrissie, that she'd immediately gone back to sleep and experienced none of this. But she had experienced it, and now she was afraid to even walk back up to their apartment, afraid of what she might hear in the walls on the way, afraid of what she might see in the shadows darkening the top of the steps.
Winston and Brock obviously sensed her mood because they both accompanied her upstairs, acting as bodyguards. They saw and heard nothing, however, and when the three of them reached her apartment, Chrissie opened the door. "So?" she asked.
Angela didn't know what to say.
"It was coming from the oven," Brock said.
"Did you ... see anything?"
They all shook their heads. "Just the voice," Winston said. "As always."
Angela turned toward Winston, tried to smile. "I'd like to say thank you for a good time, but ..."
"See you in the morning," Winston said as he and Brock turned away and started back down the stairs.
Angela walked into the apartment, Chrissie closing and locking the door behind her. "Was it scary?" Chrissie asked.
She nodded. "Yeah," she admitted. "It was." She didn't want to talk about it, didn't want to even think about it, so she forced a yawn and, wiggling her fingers good-night, retired to her room.
Where she lay in bed, unable to sleep.
Chrissie went into her room, and in the other apartments everyone else settled back down for the night, but Angela remained awake, listening for any sound in the now silent house, her body rife with gooseflesh at the recollection of that insane incomprehensible babbling. What was it? What caused it? What did it mean? Those were all questions for which she had no answer, for which no one had an answer, and when she finally did fall asleep she dreamed of a black gelatinous creature with no eyes and too many teeth that lived under the Babbitt House and waited for her.
Her second date with Brian was the next night, and though she longed to tell him about the ghost, she didn't. It was too embarrassing. She knew it had happened, knew what she'd heard, but outside of the Babbitt House, in the ordinary world of cars and other people and stores and restaurants, any account of her experience would sound ridiculous.
But it was on her mind all through dinner and the movie afterward. Brian could obviously tell that something was amiss, but he didn't know her well enough to butt in, and he chose to give her some space. For that, she was grateful. She perked up enough for a make-out session in the car, and on the way home she took the initiative to ask him out to a free jazz concert on Friday. He seemed surprised, and she wasn't sure if that was because she was being so forward-he was from Wisconsin-or whether he'd simply assumed from her behavior that she wasn't interested, but he happily said yes.
Angela didn't know how Brian felt, but as far as she was concerned, they were practically boyfriend and girlfriend. Such a concept seemed quaint and maybe even a little lame in these days of the hookup, which was why she didn't mention it, but sometime, and soon, they were going to have to talk about exclusivity.
He brought her back to the Babbitt House, parking on the street in front of the open lawn. At night, set back as it was, the mansion looked scary, forbidding. There were no lights on as far as she could tell, but it was Wednesday and it wasn't that late, so she knew someone had to be home.
What if they weren't?
"Would you like to come in?" she offered, hoping the nervousness wouldn't register in her voice.
"Yeah," he said. "That'd be great."
They got out of the car, and she took his arm, grateful for the support. She didn't think of herself as some dainty little maiden who needed the protection of a big strong man, but walking into a dark haunted house all by herself wasn't exactly something she relished doing. Brian was talking easily, casually, but all of her attention was on the front of the Victorian building as they strode up the endless lawn. She thought she saw movement in the upper right window-Randy's apartment-but the window remained dark, and she didn't like that. It was probably something ordinary and innocent, but in this mood her mind turned it into something completely wrong: Randy naked and spying on her ... a murderer who had killed Randy ... a ghost.
They reached the front entrance. Angela withdrew her key, used it to unlock the door.
The entry way was pitch-black.
"Careful!" Winston's voice called from the darkness. He emerged from his apartment, shining a flashlight on the floor so they could see where they were walking. "The power went out. Brock's checking the circuit breakers out back."
"What happened?" Angela asked.
"We don't know. The streetlights are on and none of the other houses on the street seem to be affected, so it's probably just the old crappy wiring in this place. Maybe too many computers or microwaves were on at once."
At that second, the lights came back on, as did televisions and stereos from the various apartments. All of a sudden, the house was filled with life, and Angela let out a deep breath, her muscles relaxing. She didn't realize how tense and anxious she'd been. Brian seemed embarrassed. Kelli was coming down the hall, Chrissie down the stairs, and Winston was still standing in the doorway of his apartment, flashlight in hand.
"Maybe I should go," Brian said.
There'd be no privacy here tonight, so Angela nodded. "Yeah, it's getting late."
"I'll call you tomorrow."
In front of the crowd, she gave him an awkward kiss good night, then waved as she watched him walk across the lawn to the street. She closed the door after he got into his car.
"How did it go?" Chrissie asked.
Angela thought for a moment, then smiled. "Pretty good," she said. But through the open doorway of Winston and Brock's apartment, she could see the kitchen on the other side of the living room. She recalled that alien babble and shivered.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go upstairs. I'll tell you all about it."
Six
Bear Flats, California
Jolene and Skylar walked through town, checking out the small shops, dropping in at the library, getting themselves acquainted with Bear Flats. Or, in Jolene's case, reacquainted. Her mom had wanted to watch Skylar, but as long as there was alcohol in the house, Jolene was not about to leave her son alone with his grandmother. The boy'd had a tough enough time of it already without putting him through that. She'd told her mother as much, and that had led to an argument, and Jolene had no doubt that the old woman was hitting the bottle right now. By the time they returned, Skylar's nice grandma would be gone, replaced with the same nasty bitter woman Jolene had grown up with.
She really did need to find somewhere else to live.
But it was good to be back in town.
Holding Skylar's hand, she crossed the highway to Mag's Ham Bun, where her mom had told her Leslie Finch was now manager. She and Leslie had been best friends in high school, but despite a few short phone calls and promises to get together when she came back to visit, they hadn't seen each other in ... how long? Six years? Eight?