Bones. The whole thing was made of human bones-thousands of them. The altar was covered with flickering candles from which the scent of burning flesh billowed into the thick, smoke-filled atmosphere. On the altar lay the desiccated remains of a hand.
A human hand.
A right hand.
Its nails split with age, its rotted skin falling away, its forefinger curled as if beckoning to her. She knew instinctively where it had come from: the desecrated tomb of George Conway. Even as its image burned into her mind, Janet forced herself to look away, only to be faced with something else. It, too, she recognized in a flash: the severed right forepaw of her son's pet, Scout. Next to it lay the foot of another animal, but that one, blessedly, she did not recognize.
Nauseated, she tore her eyes from the grisly objects, only to face an even more horrifying vision: above the altar, floating unsupported by anything she could see, was an inverted cross.
From the cross was suspended a figure, held to it with a single spike piercing both feet, its head dangling down. Two more spikes pierced the figure's wrists, pinning them to the transverse of the cross.
A great gash was torn in the figure's right side, and blood oozed from the wound. Blood, and something else as well.
A squirming, roiling mass of maggots, erupting from the great wound.
At last her eyes fastened on the figure's face, and her screams built until her own voice filled the vast space, then buffeted back at her, perverted into taunting laughter. For it was her own features she beheld above the altar, twisted in anguish, blood dripping down the planes of her face to mat her hair.
She felt the pain now. Her feet and wrists throbbed with agony, and the wound, churning with the ravenous maggots, burned unbearably in her side. She could feel the heat of blood streaming from the gash, and her nostrils filled with its coppery odor. She tried to take a step forward, collapsed to her knees and screamed again as her bloodied hands struck the floor.
Drugs!
That was it! Somehow, she had to have been drugged. But even that made no sense, for she could remember everything perfectly clearly, from the moment Ted came home last night.
Their lovemaking.
Falling asleep in his arms.
Waking up, filled with a sense of well-being and contentment.
She'd eaten nothing-drunk nothing.
Then how…? But the question was never completed, for even as it formed, two new figures appeared. Although their backs were toward her, she recognized them immediately.
Her husband.
And her son.
Together, they placed a bundle on the altar, something she couldn't quite see, for it was wrapped in some kind of animal skin.
A skin covered with golden fur.
Then, even before realizing what the skin must be, she knew with terrible certainty what was inside it.
"Molly!" she screamed.
Ignoring the agony in her feet and wrists, Janet raced toward the grotesque altar. From out of nowhere, a terrible peal of laughter rolled over her, and both Ted and Jared turned to gaze at her.
Ted raised his finger to point at her, and she felt a stab of heat lash into her, as if she'd been struck by a laser. Still she lurched toward the altar, her arms outstretched, her baby daughter's name shrieking from her lips. "Molly… Molly… Molly… Molly…"
The howls of mocking laughter swelled, and over and over again she felt the whiplike flick of the unseen force emanating from Ted's hand. Then, when she was still ten yards from the altar, Ted spoke.
"Stop her!"
Jared, a glittering dagger clutched in his right hand, started toward his mother.
CHAPTER 38
Father MacNeill held Kim's hands in his and looked deep into her eyes. He could still see the terror that had taken root inside her, but now there was something else as welclass="underline" a look of resolve was displacing the fear. As they stood in front of the house, the girl's determination was overcoming the paralyzing panic that had overpowered her in the biology lab at school. "You can do it, Kimberley," he said quietly. "Just remember, your aunt was right. The cross will protect you. You're going to see more frightening things than you can even imagine, but as long as you wear the cross, you will be safe. Do you understand that?"
Kim hesitated only a fraction of a second before nodding. Safe, she whispered to herself. The word had become a mantra, which she kept silently repeating as her fingers constantly went to the cross suspended from her neck on the thin gold chain: Safe… Safe… Safe… But what if the chain broke? What if the cross fell away and-
"Kim… Kiiimmmmm…"
Jared's voice again! But it sounded weaker, as if he were sinking farther into the depths she'd seen in her dreams, sinking beyond her reach. "Now," she whispered, almost as much to herself as to the two priests who flanked her. Leaving them on the sidewalk, she started toward the house.
"We can't let her go in there by herself," Father Bernard said as she moved across the lawn.
Father MacNeill said nothing until Kim mounted the steps to the porch. Even from here he could feel the icy chill emanating from the structure, almost see the heavy aura of evil that hung over it. "We don't have a choice," he finally replied. "Neither you nor I could even cross the threshold. We don't have the strength."
As Kimberley Conway slowly opened the front door, stepped through it, then closed it behind her, the two priests began to pray.
As it echoed through the vast emptiness of the house, the sound of the door closing behind Kim had a terrible finality to it. She stood perfectly still. Everything about the house had changed; the icy chill was all-pervasive now, and Kim knew there was nothing she could do to protect herself from it. The air had taken on a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe, and every instinct within Kim told her to leave.
To leave now, before it was too late.
But even as her instincts tried to force her to turn away, she started toward the stairs.
A rat came out of nowhere, darting toward her. Kim reflexively flinched backward, a shriek of revulsion rising in her throat.
Not real!
The words rose in her mind as her right hand clutched the cross around her neck.
The rat vanished.
Vanished, or only veered away to disappear through the open doors of the dining room?
Steeling herself against the panic the rat's appearance had brought on, Kim continued toward the stairs. The atmosphere grew even heavier, and her feet seemed mired in quicksand, as if she were caught up in a terrible nightmare.
She came to the bottom of the stairs, but even as she set foot on the first tread, the staircase itself came alive with snakes. They were everywhere, writhing among themselves, then rising up, their heads swaying as their tongues flicked out at her.
Kim's fingers tightened on the cross, and she took a second step, then a third.
The serpents parted before her.
As she came to the landing, a high-pitched shriek rent the silence of the house, and Kim whirled around, but saw nothing.
Another shriek, once again behind her.
She spun around again, but again saw nothing. Now the shrieking built to a howl, and Kim covered her ears, bolting up the flight to the mezzanine. A moment later she stood in front of the door to her parents' room, and as she reached for the knob, she tried to prepare herself for whatever might wait within.
She turned the knob, pushed the door open.
The corpse, naked, hung from the chandelier, a thick rope knotted around its neck.
The mouth hung open, the tongue lolled out.
The empty, dead eyes fixed on Kim.
It was her mother.
Once again a scream boiled up in Kim's throat; once again the voice inside spoke as her fingers tightened on her cross: Not real!