Demon Child

she sat in bed, heart thumping, short of breath. Beyond the window, the Friday morning sky was mostly covered with flat, gray clouds, though the sun managed to burn its way through the covering most of the time. She opened the other curtain which had remained closed since her first night in this room, letting as much light as possible into the room.
        She showered, brushed her hair dry, dressed for riding and went downstairs.
        There was no routine for breakfast. Though the others had been up and around for some time, Anna wanted to make her eggs and bacon. She managed to talk Anna into letting her have just a roll and orange juice, and the cook lectured her on the importance of a good breakfast while she ate her meager one.
        Outside, though the sky was overcast, she felt better. It was as if the nightmares were locked in the house and only her optimism was permitted to come outside with her.
        She took her time on the long walk down to the stables, absorbing the fine country morning. Birds wheeled across the sky, settled into trees, chirped loudly from their hidden perches behind clusters of leaves. A squirrel paused on the rough bark of a sycamore tree, something held tightly in its jaws so that its furry face was swollen. It pretended to be a statue until she had passed by.
        When she finally did reach the stables, she saw that Hollycross' door was wide open. It was a latching half-door, and the lock was stiff. She always made certain it was properly latched, but it looked as if she might have forgotten to double-check it yesterday.
        She hurried forward, afraid that the animal had broken loose during the night. Richard had told her what a rugged game it was to catch a runaway horse, even when it could not go beyond the fenced grounds of the estate. She didn't want to be responsible for putting him through an ordeal of that nature.
        When she reached Hollycross' stall in the line, she stepped through the open half-door, calling the horse's name.
        The animal lay in its straw.
        For a moment, Jenny thought it was ill.
        Then she saw the blood.
        In the dim light of the stables, with the smell of crisp straw in her nostrils and with birds singing somewhere behind her, she saw the ruined throat of the once-proud mare. It had been clawed and chewed open. Blood had dried in the chestnut coat.
        The eyes were open and staring.
        There were other signs of violence. All of them had been made by teeth and claws. It looked much as if a large and cunning wolf had trapped the mare and had worked its evil temper on her.
        Before she could realize what she was doing, Jenny had back-stepped out of the stall and was screaming at the top of her voice…

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    5
        
        Aunt Cora had wanted her to try to nap until they could reach Dr. Malmont and fetch him to the house, but Jenny would not take the sleeping tablet offered her. In sleep, there were nightmares. She would not even drink the drollop of brandy which Harold wanted to give her, for fear that she would grow drowsy under its influence. It was just not the proper moment for sleep.
        Not after seeing Hollycross crumpled in the straw in the dimly lighted stall.
        She would not permit the room to be darkened, but kept both windows uncurtained and kept the reading lamp burning as well. She never again wanted to be anywhere that there wasn't enough light. She hoped she would not ever again have to go out at night or sleep without a lamp burning.
        In darkness, things could creep up on you without your knowledge, surprise you unpleasantly.
        Anna sat across the room, preparing next week's menu. She seemed almost unaffected by what had happened. Yet, now and again, Jenny caught the old woman staring into space, her attention diverted from steaks, vegetables and desserts. The incidents at the Brucker house had finally come between the cook and her profession, and that meant the situation had grown serious.
        Jenny's eye fell on the red spines of the witchcraft books. She looked quickly away.
        Could there really be a curse? And if there could be, she thought, is it possible that I am the one who is cursed? It seemed like everyone or everything she loved met with grief or death before long. First her parents. Then Grandmother Brighton, just as Jenny was growing old enough to truly appreciate the depths of that old woman. Then, when