They were silent on the trip home, each of them thinking individually about what Vasili had said, about what his words and warnings meant.
That was the trouble with prophets. They had to be interpreted.
Agafia closed her eyes, thought about the meeting.
The McGuane he had destroyed with his hand was already gone.
All gone.
Had he meant by that that the Molokan community in McGuane would be destroyed, the community that had been born when the town really had looked like his model? Or had he meant that the existing town would be somehow turned to rubble? Had he meant that there would be some sort of earthquake or disaster, or that spirits would somehow bring about the destruction?
It was impossible to tell, and that’s what was so frustrating. She considered asking Vera, seeing if the old woman had any ideas or any feelings about this, but Vera was already dead asleep in the back of the van.
Agafia was tired, too. Tired not just physically but mentally, spiritually. Living seemed like such an effort, the energy required to get through a single day almost too much to bear. Would she had felt the same way if she was still back in California, she wondered, if she had not agreed to leave L.A. and come with Gregory? She did not know, but Los Angeles seemed far away now, part of another life, and she could not imagine leading that life again.
Was she ready to die?
She might have been, but it was her grandchildren that kept her going, that supplied what little spark of meaning she had in her life. She sensed that they needed her, and though there was no evidence of that, she felt it in her bones and knew it to be true, and that was what enabled her to keep on living.
It is your fault. You have invited them.
She’d been avoiding that, trying not to think about it. Vasili had said no more to her, either verbally or in her head, and the entire meeting, the entire experience, had been so strange and dreamlike that already the reality of it was fading, the sharp edges blurring in her mind.
But the emotional impact of it had not lessened. And that was how she knew it was real, that was why she knew it had actually happened. The fear she’d felt was still inside her and could be recalled at any time.
Had he spoken to the others that way as well? Had they all heard voices in their heads? She didn’t know, but somehow she didn’t think so. She’d looked around at that moment, and everyone else’s attention had been focused on the external reality of the old man crouched next to the fire. None of them appeared to have been hearing any inner voices.
Why had she been chosen?
Was it really her fault?
She didn’t know. She glanced around the van at her fellow passengers, her fellow parishioners, her friends. She felt guilty for not telling them everything, for not telling them about what the pra roak had said, but she felt guiltier for what she’d done, for forgetting to invite the Owner of the House, and now she was too embarrassed to tell them the truth. Especially at this late date. If she’d been honest with Jim from the very beginning, perhaps he could have thought of some way to counteract or counterbalance her mistake, perhaps it all could have been avoided. He had known a lot more about rituals and traditions and ceremonies than anyone else, and it was possible that he could have come up with an idea.
But it was here and it was now and all they could do was deal with it.
Besides, when it came right down to it, despite what the prophet had told her, she didn’t really believe that it was because they had not invited Jedushka di Muvedushka that all of this was happening. The Owner might have been able to protect their house from evil spirits, but that had no bearing on what was happening elsewhere in McGuane.
It wasn’t her fault, she told herself again.
But she could not make herself believe it.
3
Scott woke up early on Saturday and had two cold cinnamon Pop Tarts for breakfast, washing them down with the dregs of his dad’s coffee. His parents were gone already, off on their usual weekend rounds of McGuane garage sales, and he was once again on his own.
He watched cartoons while he ate, then dumped his cup and plate in the sink and took his dad’s 35-millimeter camera from the closet where it had been gathering dust since their last trip to Disneyland. It still had film in it, but the counter had broken and he didn’t know how many pictures were left.
One would be enough if everything went perfectly, but things hardly ever did, and he hoped there was at least half a roll to go. He pressed the “Test” button on the attached flash. It worked, and he turned off the TV, locked up the house, got his bike out from the backyard, and pedaled over to Adam’s place.
Their family’s van was gone when he arrived, and though the house looked empty, he checked to make sure anyway. He knocked on the door, waited, knocked on the door, waited, but there was no answer, and after the sixth round of knocks he gave up. He’d told Adam ahead of time that he was coming over this morning, but obviously his friend wasn’t home. Maybe he’d been corralled into some family outing, suckered into going on a hike or a shopping trip or something.
Maybe he really hadn’t wanted to help him.
Scott hadn’t actually considered that before. He knew Dan was uncomfortable with the idea of taking photos of the bathhouse, but he hadn’t taken Adam’s mild objections seriously, and now he found himself wondering if both of his friends weren’t afraid of the small building.
No, he told himself. Adam went there all the time. Alone. It was spooky, but it was cool, and there was a slight prickle at the back of his neck as he hopped back on his bike and pedaled around the side of the house and across the property toward the hill.
The bathhouse.
He saw it against the background of the old burned-out home as he emerged from the copse of paloverdes and stopped.
The day was bright, the sun high in the sky, but suddenly he was not so sure he wanted to go through with this. The idea was a winner, and he had no doubt that he would be able to sell any pictures he took, but he thought that maybe he should wait until Adam was here or at least someone was home at Adam’s house before trying to take any photos.
He did not want to go into the bathhouse alone.
That’s what it came down to.
He leaned his bike against a tree trunk and walked slowly through the jumble of boulders toward the small adobe structure. There were no birds here, he noticed. This area was completely silent, the only sounds the crunching of his tennis shoes on the ground. He took the lens cap off the camera as he walked, turned on the flash. Maybe he could just take the pictures quickly and then get out of here as fast as possible.
He approached the bathhouse, feeling nervous. He’d been too glib before, too flippant in his attitude. Dan was right. There was something here.
Of course there was something here. That’s why he’d come to take pictures.
But it was evil, he thought now. It was not merely weird and interesting and X-Files-ish. It was not just a freakish occurrence to be exploited. There was something wrong and profoundly unnatural about what lay inside that little building, and he was suddenly cowed, intimidated by its presence.
Maybe he should just forget about the whole thing.
No, he’d come this far, he might as well go through with it. Because, after this, he certainly wouldn’t be brave enough to come back and try it again.
After this, he didn’t plan ever to come back here again.