III
Winston Churchill, it is said, conducted World War II on three hours of sleep a night, augmented by frequent naps. Pat was not one of the napping kind; her afternoon sleep always left her cross and groggy, fit only for an early night. She went to bed at ten. Mark's light was still on. He had been at his desk since seven, and when she glanced in to say a rather cool good-night she was softened by the evidences of scholarly industry. His desk was piled high with books and he was taking notes with furious energy.
But instinct prevails. Pat woke in the post-midnight dark fully alert and vibrant with apprehension. At first she could not account for her feeling of impending danger. The house was quiet except for the usual creaking of shutters and thumping of radiators. Albert lay at the foot of the bed snoring and twitching, dreaming of mice.
Jud usually slept with Mark-in his bed, if he could get away with it. As Pat lay wide-eyed in the dark, listening, she heard the faint metallic jingle that accompanied the dog's movements-the rattle of his license, ID, and rabies tags. She knew, however, that this noise had not awakened her. Jud sometimes walked in the night, looking for food, water, or entertainment, especially if Mark had roused enough to kick him out of the bed. Her sleeping mind had long since learned to ignore this familiar sound.
With a sigh she swung her feet onto the floor and padded down the hall to Mark's room. Somehow she knew what she was going to find: a smooth, unrumpled bed, the spread as neat as it had been that afternoon when she made it.
She went to the window. The foliage had filled out, and it was difficult to see the house next door, but a faint gleam from the window of the master bedroom cut through the night. Kathy's window was dark. Moonlight traced the shape of the flowering apple tree at the back corner, turning it into a pale cloud of whiteness.
Pat swore, using some of the words she had learned from Mark. Muttering to herself, she went back to her room and dressed quickly in jeans and shirt, slipping her feet into a pair of worn sneakers. The hall light was on, as it always was at night. The rest of the house was dark. Pat pressed the switches as she proceeded, down the stairs and along the passsage to the kitchen, remembering how the lights had moved through Halcyon House on the previous night. She hoped Josef wouldn't see her lights and come rushing to the rescue. That could be disastrous, if what she was beginning to fear was true.
There was no one in the kitchen except Jud, sitting hopefully by the back door. When he saw Pat his tail switched and his mouth opened, emitting a long moist pink tongue. The chain on the kitchen door dangled.
Pat left the door on the latch, shoving Jud back inside with a peremptory foot when he would have accompanied her. One hurt, irritated yelp followed her; then came silence. Jud was not much of a barker.
As soon as she stepped off the path into the long grass, her shoes were soaked with dew. She had to go around to the front gate. There was no other way through to the next house. A streetlight some distance away sent long shadows wavering eerily across the sidewalk. Pat thought of going back for a flashlight, and decided that on this occasion she had better not risk it.
The night was abnormally still. The click of the latch on the gate as she closed it behind her echoed like a gunshot. She went through the Friedrichs' gate, leaving it open. Shuffling in the darkness, she tripped over a loose brick in the sidewalk and caught at a tree trunk to keep herself from falling.
The backyard was huge, over two acres in extent, spotted by old trees that spread great pools of dark shadow across the moonlit grass. Some were fruit trees; the pale blossoms looked ghostly in the dimness. Pat went toward the apple tree by Kathy's window. She was beginning to feel a little foolish. Perhaps her hunch had been wrong. But when she put her hand on the tree trunk her fingers recoiled from a clammy lump of some wet, sticky substance. Mud. A large chunk of it, lodged in the wedge between the trunk and the first low-set, spreading branch. Someone had climbed that tree, so recently that the earth left by his shoes was still wet. Pat had no doubt whatever as to the identity of the climber.
She wiped her muddy fingers on the seat of her jeans and tried to think what she should do. Kathy's window was wide open. A wisp of white curtain moved in the night breeze. Had there been a screen in that window? She couldn't remember. If there had been, it had been removed; the end of the curtain flailed out through the opening and then blew back.
She couldn't call out. That would really create a crisis. Josef was still awake. The light from his window cut a wide swath across the darkness, touching the edge of the apple tree. She was sure, with the unerring instinct of infuriated maternity, that her son was up there in Kathy's room, and she had no idea what to do about it.
She had little time to debate. As she stood, raging and uncertain, her hand absentmindedly rubbing the rough bark of the tree, she realized that something was happening up above. The window of the girl's room, which had been as black as a cave mouth, began to lighten. The light was not that of any normal lamp; it was a sickly blue-green glow, phosphorescent and ugly. No sooner had she observed it than she heard a muffled crash from the inte rior of the room; then the light was obscured by a dark shape, and she heard voices. They were mere whispers of sound; but she recognized both of them.
"The branch is there by your foot," muttered her son. "I've got hold of you, don't worry… Quick. It's com-ing."
"I'm all right. Hurry, Mark, please hurry…"
The second voice was Kathy's. Staring up, Pat saw a slim dark shape squirm out of the window, attach itself to the tree, and move downward. Her heart was thudding in her breast. As the light above strengthened, turning the open window into a square of unspeakable, nameless color, the sounds from within increased-crashes, thuds… And Mark was in there, with-whatever it was.
Even as her lips parted, prepared to scream a warning, Mark scrambled onto the tree limb. The light was strong enough to illumine his face, giving his skin a livid, corpselike hue.
Kathy slid down practically into Pat's arms, and the older woman clutched at her. Kathy let out a squeal. Then she recognized Pat, in spite of the darkness. "Goodness, you scared me," she said.
"Mark," Pat gurgled.
"He's here," Kathy said coolly, reaching out an arm to touch Mark as he jumped the last few feet, landing with a squashy thud.
"Hi, Mom. What are you doing here? You ought to be in bed."
For the second time that day Pat's voice failed her. It was not only indignation that rendered her speechless. Something other than light flowed from the open window; a finger of sickening cold touched her, weakening her knees, so that she had to grab at the tree for support. And the smell… No, not a smell; it was no phenomenon that could be identified by any normal sense. Its strangeness assaulted all the senses, making her skin crawl and her nose wrinkle, offending even vision by the noncolor of that ghastly light. The very sounds affronted reason, for they were the sounds of objects moving without anything to make them move.
A particularly appalling crash came from the window. It was followed by footsteps, muffled by distance, but clearly audible-running footsteps, and a cry, cut off almost as soon as it began by another crash.
Pat caught her son's foot as he started back up the tree.
"Not that way," she gasped. "For God's sake, Mark!"
The horrid, sickly light was fading, but the aura of foul cold still wafted in weakening waves from the open window. For once Mark yielded to her demand without argument or delay. He slid back down the trunk.
"That was Mr. Friedrichs," he said. "We've got to get in the house. Kathy, how-"