“Speaking of whom.
“Sorry, but you just missed her. You ought to be able to catch her at the office in half an hour.”
Grace hesitated.
Hot coffee began to drizzle into the Pyrex pot, and the aroma of it swiftly filled the room.
Sensing tension in Grace’s hesitation, Paul said, “What’s wrong?”
“Well. “ She cleared her throat nervously. “Paul, how is she? She’s not ill or anything?”
“Carol? Oh, no. Of course not.”
“You’re sure? I mean, you know that girl’s like a daughter to me. if anything was wrong, I’d want to know.”
“She’s fine. Really. In fact she had a physical exam last week. The adoption agency required it. Both of us passed with flying colors.”
Grace was silent again.
Frowning, Paul said, “Why are you worried all of a sudden?”
“Well. you’ll think old Gracie is losing her marbles, but I’ve had two disturbing dreams, one during a nap yesterday, the other last night, and Carol was in both. I seldom dream, so when I have two nightmares and wake up both times feeling I’ve got to warn Carol.
“Warn her about what?”
“I don’t know. All I remember about the dreams is that Carol was in them. I woke up thinking: it’s coming. I’ve got to warn Carol that it’s coming. I know that sounds silly. And don’t ask me what ‘it’ might be. I can’t remember. But I feel Carol’s in danger. Now Lord knows, I don’t believe in dream prophecies and garbage like that. I think I don’t believe in them — yet here I am calling you about this.”
The coffee was ready. Paul leaned over, turned off the brewer. “The strange thing is — Carol and I were nearly hurt in a freak accident yesterday.” He told her about the damage at O’Brian’s office.
“Good God,” she said, “I saw that lightning when I woke up from my nap, but it never occurred to me that you and Carol.. that the lightning might be the very thing I was. the very thing my dream oh, hell! I’m afraid to say it because I might sound like a superstitious old fool, but here goes anyway:
Was there actually something prophetic about that dream? Did I foresee the lightning strike a few minutes before it happened?”
“If nothing else,” Paul said uneasily, “it’s at least a remarkable coincidence.”
They were silent for a moment, wondering, and then she said, “Listen, Paul, I don’t recall that we’ve ever discussed this subject much before, but tell me— do you believe in dream prophecies, clairvoyance, things of that nature?”
“I don’t believe, and I don’t disbelieve. I’ve never really made up my mind.”
“I’ve always been so smug about it. Always considered it a pack of lies, delusions, or just plain nonsense. But after this—”
“You’re reconsidering.”
“Let’s just say a tiny doubt has cropped up. And now I’m more worried about Carol than I was when I called you.”
“Why? I told you she wasn’t even scratched.”
“She escaped once,” Grace said, “but I had two dreams, and one of them came to me hours after the lightning. So maybe the ‘it’ is something else. I mean, if the first dream had some truth in it, then maybe the second does, too. God, isn’t this crazy? If you start believing in just a little bit of this nonsense, you get carried away with it real fast. But I can’t help it. I’m still concerned about her.”
“Even if your first dream was prophetic,” Paul said, “the second one was probably just a repeat of it, an echo, not a whole new dream.”
“You think so?”
“Sure. This never happened to you before, so why should it happen again? Most likely, it was just a freak thing.. like the lightning yesterday.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re probably right,” she said, sounding somewhat relieved. “Maybe it could happen once. Maybe I can accept that. But I’m not Edgar Cayce or Nostradamus. And I can guarantee you I’m never going to be writing a weekly column of predictions for the National Enquirer.”
Paul laughed.
“Still,” she said, “I wish I could remember exactly what happened in both those nightmares.”
They talked a while longer, and when Paul finally hung up, he stared at the receiver for a moment, frowning. Although he was pretty much convinced that the timing of Grace’s dream had been merely a strange coincidence, he was nonetheless affected by it, more profoundly affected than seemed reasonable.
it’s coming.
The moment Grace had voiced those two words, Paul had felt a gut-deep, bone-deep chill.
it’s coming.
Coincidence, he told himself. Sheer coincidence and nonsense. Forget about it.
Gradually he became aware, once again, of the rich aroma of hot coffee. He rose from the edge of the desk and filled a mug with the steaming brew.
For a minute or two he stood at the window behind the desk, sipping coffee, staring out at the dirty, scudding clouds and at the incessant rain. Eventually he lowered his gaze and looked down into the rear yard, instantly recalling the intruder he had seen last evening while he and Carol had been making dinner:
that briefly glimpsed, pale, distorted, lightning-illuminated face; a woman’s face; shining eyes; mouth twisted into a snarl of rage or hatred. Or perhaps it had just been Jasper, the Great Dane, and a trick of light.
THUNK!
The sound was so loud and unexpected that Paul jumped in surprise. If his mug hadn’t been half empty, he would have spilled coffee all over the carpet.
THUNK! THUNK!
It couldn’t be the same shutter they’d heard last
evening, for it would have continued banging all night. Which meant there were now two of them to repair.
Jeez, he thought, the old homestead is falling down around my ears.
THUNK!
The source of the sound was nearby; in fact it was so close that it seemed to originate within the room. Paul pressed his forehead against the cool window glass, peered out to the left, then to the right, trying to see if that pair of shutters was in place. As far as he could see, they were both properly anchored. Thwzk, thunk-thunk, thunk, thunk…
The noise grew softer but settled into a steady, arhythmical beat that was more irritating than the louder blows had been. And now it seemed to be coming from another part of the house.
Although he didn’t want to get up on a ladder and fix a shutter in the rain, that was exactly what had to be done, for he couldn’t get any writing accomplished with that constant clattering to distract him. At least there hadn’t been any lightning this morning.
He put his mug on the desk and started out of the room. Before he reached the door, the telephone rang.
So it’s going to be one of those days, he thought wearily.
Then he realized that the shutter had stopped banging the moment the phone had rung. Maybe the wind had wrenched it loose of the house, in which case repairs could wait until the weather improved.
He returned to his desk and answered the telephone. It was Alfred O’Brian, from the adoption agency. Initially, the conversation was awkward, and Paul was embarrassed by it. O’Brian insisted on ex
pressing his gratitude: “You saved my life; you really did!” He was equally insistent about repeatedly and quite unnecessarily apologizing for his failure to express that gratitude yesterday, immediately following the incident in his office: “But I was so shaken, stunned, I just wasn’t thinking clearly enough to thank you, which was unforgivable of me.” Each time Paul protested at the mention of words like “heroic,” and “brave,” O’Brian became even more vociferous than before. At last, Paul stifled his objections and allowed the man to get it out of his system; O’Brian was determined to cleanse his conscience in much the same way that he fussed with the minute specks of lint on his suit jacket. Finally, however, he seemed to feel he had atoned for his (largely imaginary) thoughtlessness, and Paul was relieved when the conversation changed directions.