The music was thundering in her ears now. It still seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere; it drew her forward until she stood at the top of the stairs leading to the basement.
She stared down into the dark abyss, seeing nothing but blackness.
Blackness, and a single pool of light that seemed to fade away into the distance even as she gazed down at it.
But that was where Jared had gone.
She knew it. She could feel it.
And if she wanted to find him, she had to go there, too.
Steeling herself, Kim started down into the darkness.
The music grew louder with each step, until it was throbbing painfully inside her head. But she kept going, for she was beginning to feel something else, too.
Jared.
He was here, close by.
She kept going, deeper into the blackness. With each step, the pool of light seemed to recede. Yet at the same time, it pulled her toward it like a moth. "Jared," she whispered, her voice lost in the throbbing of the music. "Jared, where are you?"
At last she came to a door. A closed door. She paused, part of her wanting to go through the door, while another part of her wanted to turn away, to flee back up the stairs through the darkness, even disappear back into the gray miasma in which she'd first found herself. But she reached out and took the knob.
And pushed the door open.
The music swelled, her head feeling as if it would burst, and the brilliant light that broke from beyond the door blinded her for a moment. But then her vision cleared, and she gazed into the space that opened before her.
The ceiling, which soared to a height that made her dizzy, was supported by huge black columns so large their mass threatened to overwhelm her. Indeed, the entire chamber seemed to be bearing down on her, and despite the vastness of the space, the walls felt as if they were closing in on her. Everywhere, strangely etched panels hung, and Kim's eyes, blinking in the brilliant glare, moved rapidly from one hanging to another, gazing at the figures depicted in them. There was something familiar about them, a flickering of recognition at the edges of her consciousness, but each time she focused on one of the great gleaming panels, the feeling of recognition retreated. Only when she saw what lay at the far end of the vast chamber did she realize what it was: some kind of cathedral. But a cathedral unlike any church she had ever entered, for instead of offering her peace and comfort, this vast emptiness was filled with a terrible despair that seemed to worm its way into the core of her being.
Then, at the far end of the cathedral, above an enormous altar, she saw the cross.
It hung upside down, and where the figure of Jesus should have been, Kim saw the form of a woman, hanging head downward, her face a visage of agony.
On the altar itself, another figure lay, stretched prone on its back, gazing up toward the vaulted ceiling. And in front of the altar, a third figure stood. A tall figure, its arms raised, and spread wide in a gesture of supplication.
Or of blessing.
Even though the figure's back was to her, Kim recognized it at once.
Jared!
She took a step toward him, calling out his name.
He turned.
His eyes met hers, and Kim realized it wasn't Jared at all.
The face was Jared's.
The hair.
The eyes.
The smile.
But it wasn't Jared, for from the familiar form of her twin brother radiated an aura of something so strong it was almost a physical force.
It was Evil.
An Evil so pure and unadulterated that for a moment Kim could do nothing more than stand paralyzed in the face of it. Suddenly she understood that it was the source of everything she'd seen and felt and heard.
The suffocating gray mist.
The force that guided her down the stairs and led her into the cathedral.
The throbbing music.
All of it was Evil, pure and simple.
And at the center of it was Jared.
Now it reached out to her. She could feel it creeping closer, stretching tentacles toward her. Tentacles that-if she allowed them to touch her at all-would never release her from their grip.
She heard her name whispered in the shimmering light: "Kiiim…"
Part of her wanted to answer the siren call, wanted to reach out to the blinding light, be absorbed into it.
"Kiiimmmm…"
The whisper came again. The Evil drew closer.
And before her eyes, everything began to change. The light turned gray and cold, and now she could see that the great pillars soaring to the ceiling were made of bones. The images in the shimmering windows were visages of death. A terrible, paralyzing cold gripped Kim. Then, as if of its own volition, her right hand came up to close on the tiny golden cross, her aunt's deathbed gift. In an instant, the cold released her and she turned, fleeing from the temple of death, plunging back into the darkness, stumbling up the stairs.
Her heart pounding, her breath coming in labored gasps, Kim raced through the house and started up the great staircase in the entry hall. The gray fog closed around her again, wrapping her once more in its asphyxiating bonds, and then she could neither see nor hear.
As the breath went out of her, and the gray faded to black, she uttered a single, silent scream. Then she gave herself up to the mists and the darkness.
She deserves it.
She really deserves it.
Luke Roberts repeated the phrase over and over as he watched the face of the woman suspended head down on the inverted cross that floated above the shimmering altar.
His mother's face.
He'd watched in fascination as the spinning cross slowed to a stop, but even when he finally got a clear look at the face of the woman, he hadn't recognized it right away. All he'd seen was the pain in it-the agony. The mouth was open but no scream emerged; the eyes were stretched into horrified orbs, but no tears ran from beneath the lids. Everything about the face was distorted, but slowly-so slowly Luke was barely aware of it-he began to recognize his mother.
As her features came into focus, so also did all the angry memories-memories that, until this moment, he hadn't even known existed.
Her fault!
Everything was her fault!
Her fault that they never had any money.
Her fault that no matter what he did, Father MacNeill always found out about it.
It was probably even her fault that his father was dead!
But now she was finally getting what she deserved.
His eyes met hers then, and he felt her silent accusation:
Why are you doing this to me?
All the fury he'd felt that evening when he got home from cleaning the church came flooding back to him. What was she doing, getting all over his back? He hadn't done anything! So he'd been a couple of minutes late getting back from lunch. Big fuckin' deal! Who cared, except her and all those priests? As his anger grew, he watched his mother writhe on the inverted cross, watched blood begin to ooze from the pores of her face.
Don't you like it? he silently taunted. Well, now you know how I feel when you're always picking at me!
His rage-a rage far stronger than he'd ever felt before-continued to grow, until he was on his feet, moving toward the altar. Drawing closer to the cross, his arm outstretched, he pointed directly at his mother's pain-ridden face with a quivering finger.
"Die!" he hissed. Then his voice rose. "Die," he shouted. "God damn you! Just die!" His voice cracked, and he dropped to his knees. "Die!" he breathed once more. His rage spent, his head dropped forward onto his chest and his eyes closed.
Luke's whole body trembled, then stilled, and finally, depleted, he opened his eyes again.
The candles Jared had arranged on the workbench were guttering-one of them had already gone out.