Demon Child

the first place, in hopes that she could be with people whom she loved and who would return her love and make her feel a part of their lives. All those whose affections had sustained her in the past-all those were dead. Only Cora and Richard remained as links to the brighter parts of life, to love and understanding and gentleness. But now they had problems of their own: Freya's illness, the bickering between mother and son, Richard's increasing impoliteness, the heckling of the real estate speculators who made Cora so nervous-and the unremitting air of the unknown which hung over the house and those within it. There was no time for the simple pleasures of life. It was, suddenly, as if she were a boarder in a house of strangers.
        The frustrated longing for stability and routine and love which had possessed her ever since Grandmother Brighton's death could not be resolved here. There was no stability in a place of werewolves and curses. Routine was shattered by howls in the night, by badly mutilated horses, by children in unexplained comas. And the air contained an evil expectancy that stifled love. All Jenny could gain here was sorrow and a sharper edge to her fear.
        But how could she ever explain all of this to Cora?
        She did not want to hurt her aunt's feelings or add to the older woman's current list of miseries. Though she might not like being here, Cora might actually need her. She remembered the several times Cora had come to her room to talk about things, as if confiding, just a little, in the niece. Perhaps, unknowingly, she offered Cora the woman's only emotional outlet at the moment.
        Yet she wanted out.
        Desperately.
        She thought around all sides of her problem as she descended the wide main staircase Saturday morning. She was not dressed for riding, since she did not want to go near the stables, at least until the memory of Hollycross' corpse was not so sharp in her mind. She still wore her bedroom slippers which made little or no noise on the steps.
        Perhaps that was why Richard did not hear her and look up, even though she had not been consciously trying to sneak up on him. He spoke urgently, his voice a stage whisper, into the black receiver of the main hall telephone on its stand by the foot of the last flight of steps.
        “What should we do with her?” Richard asked the unknown party on the other end of the line.
        For some reason, Jenny stopped at the last landing on the length of stairs, her hand on the polished wood bannister, waiting. Ordinarily, she would never have considered eavesdropping on someone's private conversation. Yet, these were strange times. His whispered voice had an odd excitement to it. And there was something about the way he had spoken that question which made Jenny's blood run colder…
        He listened for a time, intense, breathing heavily.
        Then he said, “I don't know if we can get away with it without arousing some suspicions.”
        He was quiet again.
        Get away with what? Jenny wondered. What sort of conversation had she stumbled into? Whatever it was, it made her more wary than ever. The voices of the dead began urging her to flee, their pleading more urgent now.
        “Yes, I agree. The drug itself won't be a clue; too many people could get hold of it to make it unique. The killer would find himself pretty much untraceable.”
        More silence.
        Imperceptibly, at the mention of a killer, Jenny shifted her weight nervously. A board creaked under her, the noise piercing the unnatural morning silence of the house as thoroughly as the explosion of a stick of dynamite might have done.
        He was too engrossed in his conversation to hear. He did not look up or appear startled.
        She waited, afraid now to retreat-aware that she could not possibly go ahead and let him know that she had been listening.
        Please, please, don't let him see me, she begged- not quite certain toward whom she was directing this short and anxious prayer.
        “Let me think about it,” Richard said. “Since you'll not be available until day after tomorrow, there's no rush.”
        He listened, nodded,
        “Goodbye,” he said.
        He hung up, careful to cradle the phone as quietly as possible, then walked back the corridor and entered the distant kitchen through the swinging white door there. The squeak of that door's hinges echoed in the still hall for long