The Sandy thing just stared at him.
Smith needed time to think of what to do next. He couldn’t bring himself to just fling himself on the thing, cut open its chest and eat its heart out, here on Annie McGowan’s couch.
At least, not yet.
“Ms. McGowan,” he called, never taking his eyes off the creature, “Could you come in here, please? And bring a sharp knife, a paring knife would be fine.”
Annie answered, “What?”
Smith repeated his instructions, and added, “And lock the front door on your way, please.”
A moment later he heard her bustling into the room behind him. He didn’t turn.
“Give the knife to Khalil,” he said.
Clearly puzzled, Annie obeyed.
Khalil accepted the knife uncertainly.
“Let me see your blood,” Smith said. He leaned forward so that the tip of the bread knife was resting lightly on the false Sandy’s chest.
Comprehension dawned; Khalil loosened his hold on the creature enough that he could use the knife to prick his finger.
Blood welled up immediately, thick, red, human blood.
Smith relaxed.
“Forgive me,” Khalil said, “but Mrs. McGowan?” He made a small questioning gesture.
That had not occurred to Smith. He nodded. “Ms. McGowan,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but could you draw a little blood for us? It seems to be the surest way to be certain you’re… well, still you.”
She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here,” she said, but she took the knife Khalil offered her, and cut across the base of her thumb.
Blood flowed freely, red and shining.
“Thank you,” Smith said. “So it’s just Sandy.”
“Here,” Khalil said.
Smith stared at him. “What?”
“It is just Sandy of the four of us here. We don’t know about elsewhere.”
Smith nodded; Khalil was right; Maggie had gone home, and the nightmare people might have gotten her there.
There was nothing they could do about it right now, though. Not if it was already too late.
But if there was still time…
“Ms. McGowan,” he said, “Would you please phone Maggie, and warn her that the nightmare people have been active again? If she can, I think she should stay with other people at all times, and to stay awake, and it might be wise to stay in well-lit places. If she wants to come here, that would be fine, but not alone – someone should walk with her.”
“All right,” Annie said. She looked at the false Sandy, at the knife at his chest, and hurried to the kitchen.
3.
“Now,” Smith said to the imitation Sandy Niklasen, “What are we going to do with you?”
The creature didn’t reply. It watched Smith warily.
“You probably think,” Smith told it, “that we’re going to kill you, that we’re going to cut you open and eat your stinking black heart. And you may be right. On the other hand…”
He paused for dramatic effect, but the thing just stared at him. It still looked exactly like Sandy; except for the cut on its arm, its disguise was perfect.
“On the other hand,” Smith said, “If you tell us everything we want to know about your kind, maybe we can make a deal – you leave us alone, we let you go. What do you think, hey?” Khalil, where the thing couldn’t see him, shook his head angrily.
“I think you guys are nuts,” it said. “You think I’m one of them? Hey, I’m Sandy Niklasen; I helped you kill one of them last night!”
Smith shook his head. “No,” he said, “You aren’t. Sandy’s dead. You ate him, and now you’re wearing his skin. We know it, and you know it, and there’s no point in denying it.” He flicked the knife aside for an instant to point at the exposed flesh of the thing’s arm, then quickly pressed the tip back against its chest, a little harder than before.
The steel blade cut into Sandy’s shirt a little. The individual threads seemed to slide up the blade one by one, stretching until they parted.
The thing stared up at Smith for a moment, then it flashed a quick, silvery grin.
“All right,” he said, “You’ve got me. I want to live, same as anybody; I’ll deal. What do I have to do?”
Smith looked up at Khalil, who looked back. Both of them could hear Annie McGowan’s voice in the kitchen, too low to make out the words, as she spoke to Maggie on the phone.
“What are you?” Smith asked.
The thing blinked, and its eyes flashed red for an instant before Sandy’s familiar brown returned. It shrugged. “You called us nightmare people,” it said. “That’s as good a name as any.”
“You don’t have a name for yourselves?” Smith asked.
“Nope,” the thing said. “Why should we? We knew that sooner or later, your kind would give us one.”
Smith hesitated, and then demanded, “Where did you come from?”
“Nowhere. Or everywhere. We didn’t come from anywhere so much as we just happened.” The voice was still Sandy’s, but something had crept into it, a coldness that hadn’t been there before.
“What are you talking about?” Smith asked, uneasily. The knife sank a little deeper, indenting Sandy’s stolen skin.
“We happened,” the creature insisted. “We didn’t come from anywhere. When Lammas Night came with the new moon, at 3:00 a.m., we were just there, at the Bedford Mills apartments.”
“What is Lammas Night?” Khalil asked, before Smith had phrased his next question.
“The night of August first,” the thing said. “And the early morning of August second. It’s one of the four nights of the year when the old, dark powers are strongest, the powers that you people say you don’t believe in any more – the powers you hid from as children, the ones that put monsters in your closets, the powers you deny now even when they put those same monsters in your streets and parks, with knives and guns instead of claws and teeth.” It shifted, and smiled again, showing silver teeth. “You all know Hallowe’en, and some of you remember Walpurgisnacht, or Beltane, and your very awareness of them weakens them. But that left us Candlemas and Lammas – and here we are.”
“Why 3:00 a.m.?” Smith asked, trying to inject a little sarcasm. “Isn’t midnight traditional?”
The creature shook its head. “Not any more. Before the electric light, midnight was the darkest hour, when sanity was weakest and evil could walk free, but nowadays you people are scarcely in bed then, what with the eleven o’clock news. No, it’s 3:00 a.m. when the spirit fails, when the darkness is deepest and hope furthest away. That’s the hour for suicides, the time of despair, when the day past is gone and the sunrise still impossibly far ahead.”
“You sound like you’re enjoying this,” Smith muttered, annoyed.
“Oh, I am!” the thing said, smiling. “Don’t you see? Isn’t it obvious? You people, you humans, you’re my natural prey, my targets, my enemies; my kind is destined to destroy yours, to devour you – but in secret. Always in secret. And where’s the fun in that? Hey, I like to gloat as much as you do; I want to brag. I want to let you poor creatures know something of what you’re up against, so you’ll see how hopeless it is. I want to see you scared. I want to see you suffer, see you worry. I enjoy seeing you frightened.” It paused, grinning.
“Ordinarily, I couldn’t tell anyone,” it said. “That would be too dangerous. But you’ve forced me to speak; my sibs can’t hold it against me, even if you let me live. And of course, you’re already marked anyway. You won’t live to tell anyone.”
“You sound like a bad movie villain, gloating over his captives and giving the hero time to arrive,” Smith said.
The thing’s grin widened. “Ah, but isn’t there some truth in that clich? gloating, however foolish it might seem to take the risk? And what if, instead, I’m distracting you while my own reinforcements arrive?”
Khalil glanced around at the windows and the front door, then back at the thing on the couch.
“If that’s the case,” Smith said, “then you’re a fool to tell us.”
“Only if you believe me,” it said, “But you don’t, do you? You don’t think I’d be that foolish – or that clever.”